


A Way with Words

by SacrificialNecrosis



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Azula (Avatar) Redemption, Colonialism and Imperialism, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Iroh (Avatar) is a Good Uncle, Languages and Linguistics, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, POV Multiple, Propaganda, Scribe Zuko AU, Toph (Avatar) is an Awkward Badgermole, Toph Beifong and Zuko are Siblings, Unreliable Narrator, Zuko (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, and responsible adults, exploring the civilian side of the war, i keep editing tags haha, no beta we die like lu ten, selective mutism, sometimes depressing sometimes funny usually depressingly funny, which i will give and take, worldbuilding for communication nerds, zuko is legally 13 but physically 12 lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25914496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SacrificialNecrosis/pseuds/SacrificialNecrosis
Summary: The Crown Prince disrespected the Fire Lord (long may He reign) and forfeited an Agni Kai. Ever just and merciful, the Fire Lord forgave His loyal son and elected to send him to the colonies where he would learn respect and governance.Alas, the Crown Prince never reached his destination. On the way to Yu Dao, the dishonorable Earth Kingdom and its allied Water Savages slaughtered the poor young prince and his crew, dooming their ship to the heathen deity La. Thus, for this great act of barbarism and provocation toward the Children of Agni, the Earth Kingdom and the Water Savages must suffer the Fire Nation’s wrath a millionfold.This is the official account told by the Fire Lord, recorded by his scribes, fed to his people, and spat on his enemies.A young scribe in Gaoling knows a different story.(Or the Scribe Zuko AU where Zuko deals with his issues™ through tons of writing, Toph smashes her parents’ expectations in between reading lessons, Iroh brews the best tea in Gaoling while running a secret Pai Sho club, and Azula indulges in cryptic tales by a treasonous author.)
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Jee & Zuko (Avatar), Song & Zuko (Avatar), Toph Beifong & Toph Beifong's Parents, Toph Beifong & Zuko, Zuko & The Order of the White Lotus (Avatar)
Comments: 139
Kudos: 665





	1. Stoking the Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Spirit World, Zuko crashes a tea party.  
> In the Mortal World, three healers care for a wounded child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For new readers: Chapters 1 to 6 ( _Away, Without a Word_ ) block off other possible AUs (Sailor and other associated AUs, Healer, Feral, Blue Spirit, Freedom Fighter) and leads Zuko to the ~~Nerd~~ Scribe AU. The road to Gaoling is kinda long.
> 
> There will be references to past and present realities in Asia as we go along, but this work is not meant to be representative of Asian cultures as a whole. Asian cultures are very diverse, and this fic takes inspiration from East, Southeast, and South Asian cultures. Also there's a lot of POV and style shift because I like experiments haha
> 
> It goes without saying that the views and opinions expressed by the characters do not necessarily reflect my own. 
> 
> **CW: implied/referenced violence against women and children, victim-blaming, implied/referenced abortion (mostly during Sun-Mi's narration)**

### I. Away, Without a Word

“Zuzu?”

His eyes opened to a sepia-tinted world seemingly reflected on stock-still tea. Before him, lazy swirls of steam rose from a pair of earthen cups.

“Nephew?”

Two different hands, one old and one young, yet equally gentle, pulled him out of his stupor. A calm washed over him as the fog of his mind parted to reveal who they belonged to.

Uncle and Lu Ten regarded him with uncertainty. For what reason, he was clueless. Was he intruding? Before he could excuse himself, Lu Ten, who looked not a day older than the last time he saw him ( _before he left, before he—_ ) smiled and asked, “Hey, cousin. How’re you?”

How was he? It was a simple question, a common greeting to be answered with “I’m fine. Thank you.” But the words refused to leave his throat. He was fine, wasn’t he? In fact, he was doing so fine that Father allowed him to sit in a war council for the first time.

Oh. The war council. How was the war council again?

“Did something happen, Nephew?”

Something happened. Was he forgetting something? Uncle and Lu Ten were frowning at him now, so it must be important.

Was it raining? Something wet ran down his cheeks. A hand reached for his face and—

He screamed.

“Zuko? Zuko, tell us what’s wrong, please.”

The world responded in his stead. The ground fissured, the sky grew murky, the vegetation coiled and withered. Yet, all went unnoticed by the boy whose tears pooled to blind him, the agony inside him numbing him to the outside’s devastation.

_‘Stand up and fight.’_

His mind conjured the arena.

“Please…Father…”

Father towered over him, blocking Agni’s light.

Burning-burning _-burning-_

His face melted into Azula’s, and then it was her turn to kneel, _to burn_ , by their father's hand. “Lala—” Zuko gasped. “I-I need to—the crew—we need to—”

The waves swallowed him. He was cold-cold- _cold-_

In the darkness, a row of tangerine specks beckoned to him. His inner fire—like candlelight, weak and small, the only warmth left in him—responded to the embers’ call and coaxed them to grow brighter, _stronger_.

_“You’ll be okay.”_

His eyes opened to a set of tea-brown eyes. The faint smell of incense hung in the air. Then, darkness reclaimed him.

* * *

Song greeted the morning with a tired yawn. She had woken up to her mother bustling very early to make a house call. The clinic wouldn’t be open in another hour.

“I’ve changed his bandages. Sun-Mi should arrive soon,” her mother said, eyes glancing at her briefly as she packed her supplies. “Can you watch our patient in the meantime, dear?”

“Yes, Mom.” Another yawn, another minute with her pillow.

“Good. There’s jook in the kitchen. I saved you the last tangerine.”

By the time Song managed to part with her blankets and to dress herself for the day, her mother had already left. Her simple breakfast done, she started for the living room where their ancestral shrine stood. Lighting incense every morning was mostly out of habit than out of spiritual devotion, and this day would have been no different.

But two days had passed since the boy (who she guessed was as old as she was if not younger) was brought to their clinic. Two days, but his fever was still refusing to let up even with their intervention.

“He would be lucky to survive this,” Sun-Mi said, a bit too pessimistic for a healer. Song, the optimist, thought she could give his luck a little boost today.

Healers liked control: time, dosages, ingredients, and methods must be precise for them to work. “But you cannot control everything,” her grandmother taught her. “Some things, you just leave to chance.”

Which reminded her—her grandmother’s death anniversary was approaching. They had to prepare for the memorial.

A pain shot through her chest and stopped her on her tracks. Her father led the family rites during special occasions. Several months had gone by since the Fire Nation took him, and his absence was made more pronounced by the number of times her mother had to lead in his stead.

Reconsidering, she went back for the tangerine she’d been saving for later.

The likelihood of her father’s survival dropped as the days progressed, and yet she and her mother refused to carve his spirit tablet, unlike their neighbors who had already accepted their loss. It was literally and figuratively setting things in stone, and as stubborn Earth Kingdom daughters, neither of them would have it.

Her steps slowed as the small shrine came to view, her mind and body easing as she neared.

She greeted her grandmother’s spirit tablet with a bow, then lined up the incense sticks on the burner in tribute to her and the spirits. The smoke drifted, and she let her mind follow their lazy trail. Absently, she stroked the warm fruit in her hands, its rind as vibrant as the embers.

( _Would Grandmother want a tangerine?_ )

Offering it up, she whispered, “Grandmother? Father isn’t back, yet. The boy in our care isn’t doing well. If it’s not too much to ask, can you intercede for their safety?”

She searched the embers for any reaction, but they refused to even blink. She sighed and wondered if she could have her snack back.

Sun-Mi arrived on schedule. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Song went about her daily tasks, not-so-subtly peeking on their patient while the other healer attended to him. The boy was so still she worried he’d pass away without her looking.

When lunch rolled around, her mother returned with a package of soy garlic pig-chicken wings (thin as they were, they were plump with a patient’s gratitude). Food options dwindled with the war at their doorstep, so Song delighted in their short break from fish and vegetables. Even so, her companions ate their meal in uncharacteristic silence, and Song didn’t need to ask why.

(She longed for the tangerine on the altar.)

( _Maybe Grandmother didn’t want it._ )

The sun set as Sun-Mi rose from her seat to let Song take her place by the boy’s bedside. Turning to her, Sun-Mi smiled, tight-lipped, and patted her cheek. Song knew what her senior thought without her saying it.

“You’ll be okay,” Song promised, even if she had nothing to back it up. It was naïve for a healer to expect everyone’s survival, but it didn’t stop her from wishing.

(A wish on embers and a single tangerine.)

He stirred. She gasped when he opened his eye ( _so gold, like a newly minted coin_ ) to meet hers.

“Mom! Mom, he woke up!”

Her mother arrived quickly, though not quickly enough to catch the boy awake. She checked him over and confirmed his improvement.

Later, when she returned to their ancestral shrine, the remains of the incense sticks told her the spirits’ answer.

An auspicious sign.

The boy’s fever broke that night.

* * *

Seok did not expect the boy to survive, but she was very grateful he did.

In her many years of practice, Seok understood that she—or any other healer—was no miracle worker. She liked to think that the number of people who survived with her help were greater than those who didn’t, but the fact that people had died and would die under her care remained.

Song, young and inexperienced, did not understand this, yet. Coming from a line of healers, she began running their clinic’s errands at the age of seven and studying healing theory at nine, but only a few weeks ago did she start taking on more responsibility as a formal apprentice. During those weeks, only light to moderate cases came through their doors. This was their clinic’s first severe case in a long while, and Song was more invested than usual because it was a _burn injury_.

She remembered the shock on her daughter’s face the day the fisherman brought the boy to them.

“I’ll make the burn cream,” Song volunteered. Knowing her daughter’s own burns, Seok silently wished she’d learned how to prepare it under different circumstances. Half a year had passed since the Fire Nation’s attack. Her daughter's skin had already healed, but Seok knew well that not all wounds were physical.

Which led her musings to the boy. The first time she took his temperature, Seok instinctively withdrew her hand as if she’d scalded herself. _Firebender._

She had little experience dealing with them, being an Earth Kingdom healer, but she recalled from her mother’s lessons that a firebender’s skin did not burn easily.

 _Was it deliberate?_ She thought grimly while assessing the extent of damage. _Why would they burn their own?_ His injury had been cared for at some point before the boy was fished out of the sea, but it hadn’t had sufficient time to heal, yet. The infection was inevitable.

For two days and two nights, they put him under close monitoring, working almost round-the-clock with her and Sun-Mi taking turns at cleaning, debriding, and dressing his wound. They relegated Song to other duties, but she hovered close like a mother turtleduck.

All throughout, the child didn’t wake once, but he whispered pleas as fever nightmares consumed him. "Please, Father," but not in the same way Song cried for her own on nights when the blazes invaded her dreams. Seok could tell they would have to deal with _other_ wounds if— _when_ —he overcame the physical ones. By the third day, not seeing much improvement, she and Sun-Mi prepared for the worst.

The worst never came.

* * *

Sun-Mi's foremost thought was always the worst-case scenario. Such mindset allowed her to spot symptoms that more optimistic healers would have easily dismissed in their patients.

Thinking of the worst wasn't difficult to do when she saw the fever-stricken boy limp in his rescuer’s arms. The worst wasn't hard to imagine when the fever burned hot enough for a funeral pyre.

“He would be lucky to survive this.” 

People lived. People died. Song, bright and sunny little Song, would call her a downer, but that’s just how it was.

Pale skin, gold eyes, warmer-than-normal. The child was obviously of Fire.

She didn’t want to assume, but he reminded her of her sister, long gone.

Her sister, who was violated during a raid, and was forced to bear the fruit of the soldier’s cruelty within her womb. It was shameful to conceive children out of wedlock, more so if it was the enemy’s. Nobody of pure Earth would gamble on birthing an ashmaker.

Yet, it was also shameful to kill an unborn child.

So, if they were allowed to be born, could they live without guilt? No, they were shameful to the mother, to the family, and to themselves.

She didn’t want to assume, but his burn reminded her of how people, even family, could be cruel to children.

Many war children, especially those with any hint of Fire Nation, were abandoned by their parents. Those who survived were society's scapegoats for the oppressors they couldn't fight. They were shunned by Earth, but never surrendered to Fire. Who would want to arm their enemy? Maybe it was different in the colonies where they could be put to use (fodder or kindling, they were still useful), but in conservative Earth Kingdom towns, they were nothing but dust in the wind that irritated people's eyes—dust that was trampled underfoot.

“Mother, why is that?” Sun-Mi had asked once.

“That’s just how it is.”

And so, her family and the townspeople spurned her sister. Because that’s just how it was. When Sun-Mi went to her sister’s secluded hut against her parents’ wishes, she found her lifeless body, blood pooling between her thighs. Dark liquid trailed from her pale lips, the same herbal concoction trickling from the near-empty bottle in her hand. Her sister had tried many self-destructive ways to rid herself of her burden. This time, she must’ve found one of _those_ herbalists and finally succeeded. But the burden was too much, and she collapsed in its weight.

The funeral was quick, and from then on only her modest tombstone spoke her name. That’s just how it was, as her rock-headed, stone-hearted people said.

If Sun-Mi hadn’t been so clueless then, could she have saved her sister? Would her sister even want to be saved in the first place? She’d never know. Maybe the worst-case scenario.

She didn’t want to assume, but she wondered if her sister’s child would have turned out like this scarred, discarded boy if they survived.

Awake, the child was drowsy from the pain reliever, but he was staring warily like a frightened pygmypuma kitten.

“It’s time to change your bandages,” she told him with a smile meant to reassure the both of them.

He didn’t answer. He cowered when she reached for him.

Sun-Mi's foremost thought was always the worst-case scenario. But maybe for this boy, she should try hoping for the best—

“It’s okay. We’ll make it okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to make characters younger? Use the traditional East Asian age reckoning HAHA Children are 1 year old at birth under this system because a) the old number system didn't have 0; and/or b) time in the womb counted. Typically it's +1 the modern age, but there are cases when it's +2 (when born just before the new year). 
> 
> [Children of the Vietnam War](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/children-of-the-vietnam-war-131207347/)  
> [Inside the Philippines’ women-run crime ring selling abortion elixirs](https://gpinvestigations.pri.org/inside-the-philippines-women-run-crime-ring-selling-abortion-elixirs-51cd2de6cb8b)  
> A bit of Asian perspective on the issue of abortion ([China - historical](http://www.nzlii.org/nz/journals/NZBioethJl/2002/24.pdf) / [Korea](https://slate.com/news-and-politics/2019/04/abortion-south-korea-legalized.html)


	2. Foreign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko's life-changing field trip continues inside his confusing mental landscape.  
> Through words and actions, the healers chip away at Li's barriers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CW: Zuko's issues™, mostly implied/referenced child abuse, suicidal ideation, low self-worth, and casual racism**  
>  Thank you for your lovely feedback on the previous chapter. Zuko is a mess, this chapter is a mess, but I didn’t invoke Murphy’s law, yet, as a treat heh

**My life I give to my country.**

**With my hands I fight for Fire Lord Ozai and our forefathers before him.**

**With my mind I seek ways to better my country.**

**And with my feet may our March of Civilization continue.**

Zuko _could not_ trust Earth Kingdom peasants. They spoke in their nonsense barbarian language. They prodded his wounds. They were simply lulling him into a false sense of security.

The noisy girl was there again, shoving another spoon of tasteless goop in his face and chattering nonstop even though all he wanted to do was _sleep_.

Too weak to escape from the enemies' clutches, Zuko recited the Fire Nation Oath in his head over and over again. Partly to tune out the girl’s ramblings. Mostly to stave off _unpleasant_ thoughts.

As the Crown Prince, he must not show weakness to the enemy. That's why he wouldn't balk at the sight of greens and browns and the sounds of unintelligible conversation. That's why he wouldn't cry when the dirt peasants poked his face. He wouldn't feel grateful for their care because he didn't owe these barbarians anything. They were lucky to be in the presence of their future overlord.

_"You were lucky to be born."_

( _Why be born at all?_ )

**My life I give to my country.**

As the Crown Prince, he must be a model to their people. That's why father had to teach him a lesson. That's why he was going to the colonies. He didn't learn as fast as Azula did, so his teachers had to drill him again and again until their lessons were firmly engraved in his stupid brain and clumsy body.

_"Suffering will be your teacher."_

( _Why does it have to hurt?_ )

As the Crown Prince—as Zuko, he loved Father. That's why he always tried his best to be worthy of his attention. That's why he didn't fight him. That's why he blamed only himself—only Zuko, Zuko, and _Zuko_ —for everything that was wrong and painful even though it was glaring that—

_"Sorry, kid. Papa doesn't love you."_

Feeling somebody’s warm hands on his shaky pair, Zuko looked up to find one of the women who’d been attending to his needs. The one who looked like the noisy girl but wasn’t as noisy. He couldn't understand what she was saying, only the soft expression on her face. Her tea tasted weird. The noisy girl had gone silent. There must be something going on, but he was too tired to figure anything out.

Too tired. _Never give up without a fight_ , the knife said. So he did, even though he shouldn’t, against the generals who thought of his people as nothing but a bonfire’s kindling.

_“Stand up and fight!”_

_“I won’t fight you.”_

He took the words to heart, but evidently he didn’t know which battles to pick, and look where that landed him. _Never give up without a fight_ , the knife said, but he’d been fighting this futile battle for so, so long.

Too tired. Maybe he should just—

Easing him into bed, the woman stayed by his side, running her fingers through his short hair and humming a foreign melody that followed him into tranquil green and brown dreamscapes.

* * *

It was the gloomy woman’s turn to torture him with damp, funny-smelling bandages. The Fire Nation Oath was frankly boring, so he listened to her lilting speech that seemed out of place on her somber face. He’d learned a bit of Earth Kingdom language in the palace (“You have to know the enemy,” his tutors said, and Zuko hid behind this excuse whenever he caught himself engrossed in Earth Kingdom classics), but even though it sounded similar, he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

The noisy girl piped up beside her. Then, silence and a lot of staring. Maybe not quite staring him in the eye, but still _looking at him._

(It was _definitely not_ making him queasy).

Was it a question? If it was a question, then they were waiting for his reply, which wouldn’t come because he had no idea what they were asking.

They wouldn’t stop staring.

Thankfully, the third healer appeared and saved him from the other two’s probing gaze. Another torrent of foreign words displaced the awkward silence. Maybe this was how Mochi felt when he and Azula argued over the hawk’s food preferences right in her birdy face.

“Excuse me,” the next words came. Finally! Something he understood. His head whipped to the source, the third healer. “You understand Common?”

 _“_ Of course _._ I’m not stupid, _”_ he wanted to snap at her, but his throat closed up and forbade any sound from leaving his mouth. Swallowing his dread ( _don’t panic don’t panic_ ), he gave a jerky nod instead.

“I am Healer Seok. Healer Sun-Mi and Healer Song,” she gestured to identify who was who, “were talking to you in our standard language. Did you understand them?”

Even a short “no” didn’t make it through, so he settled on shaking his head. Healer Seok turned to the others, “We’ll speak in Common.”

And then, they were looking at him _again._ Servants weren’t supposed to stare this long.

But they weren’t servants, and they weren’t in the palace. They weren’t even in the Fire Nation.

“What’s your name? How old are you? Where do you live? Maybe we can send for someone to get you home.” It was the noisy girl once more, and there was renewed fervor in her eyes now that she knew he wasn’t brain-dead. _Hold your ostrich horses!_ He opened his mouth to respond, but his breath hitched and—

A slate was gently placed in his hands.

“We understand you may not be comfortable talking to us, but we’re here to help you.” As mildly as the way she spoke, Healer Seok offered him a piece of chalk.

_“You’ll get it soon, Zuko. Here, let’s try again.”_

**_“My name is,”_** Zuko began writing in the Caldera script only to hurriedly wipe the slate clean upon realizing his mistake. _Earth Kingdom, dum-dum._ He tried again in the Common script, and took an inordinate amount of time deciding between the characters for _power_ and _mile_. He settled on _mile._ It had more strokes; therefore, less boring.

 **“ _My name is Li._ ”** Very generic. Totally not suspicious.

**“ _I’m 13._ ” **

**“ _No place._ ”**

He passed the slate to Healer Seok. Apparently, the gloomy woman, Healer Sun-Mi, could get gloomier. To their credit, all of them tried to appear reassuring despite their barely concealed…what, pity? He didn’t need pity. Of course, it was the noisy girl who broke the silence.

“You’re 13. I’m 14. That makes you my junior!”

 _I’m nobody’s junior!_ Zuko couldn’t protest verbally, so he glared at her as fiercely as he could. Barbarians didn’t outrank Fire Nation royalty. But no, she had the audacity to laugh. Even the gloomy healer seemed amused by her ridiculous declaration.

“It’s okay, Li,” Healer Seok said, smiling. “You can stay here in the meantime.”

* * *

“Your handwriting is very neat,” Healer Sun-Mi noted when he asked her for water.

Master Piandao had praised his brushwork, too.

_But Father wants a master firebender, not a master calligrapher._

He stared at his hands, calloused from sword practice and unseemly for a firebender, much less a prince.

**With my hands I fight for Fire Lord Ozai and our forefathers before him.**

Even though he started firebending training as early as four, he couldn’t throw sparks until he was nine. Azula summoned her first flame at four, at which point their father stopped paying attention to him.

(He could still recall the innocent joy on Azula’s face when she showed him a little blue flame cupped in her tiny hands, her giggles like the tinkling of wind chimes in the summer breeze. “Zuzu, look,” she said with a lisp, and so he did, smiling with all the pride an older brother could have for a dear little sister.

“Yes, your flame is beautiful, Lala.”)

Before he left for the Siege, Lu Ten convinced Zuko to accompany him to Shu Jing where the sword master lived. Looking back, it was one of the best summers of his life; the thrill of dancing with steel was outshone only by the elation of summoning his first flame a few months into his sword training.

Still, nothing he did made his father happy. He didn’t bother when his son left. But when Zuko returned to the palace, finally with his own fire to call forth, his father apparently cared just enough to mock him for learning weapons when he was lagging behind Azula.

“Father!”

Two snotty Earth Kingdom children barrelled towards the patient on the other side of the clinic, a middle-aged man whose left leg Healer Seok stitched up hours ago. His right was beyond saving, and had to be amputated.

“We raced here, and I beat Fon again!”

“I beat you two times in a row!”

“Well, both of you are good runners.”

Father always measured Zuko against Azula.

_“Azula was born lucky. You were lucky to be born.”_

(By his father's iron grip, those tinkling wind chimes had been twisted into alarm bells.)

The man caught his children in a hug. They smiled and laughed as they prattled on about their day, living in their little bubble without a care in the world.

When was the last time Father hugged him?

Uncle used to hug him. As embarrassing as it was for him to admit, in one of his loneliest moments after his mother’s disappearance, Zuko thought he’d willingly suffer through endless tea and Pai Sho if it meant Uncle would stay.

(How miserable he must be to cling to anyone who showed the slightest hint of paternal affection.)

Uncle didn’t stay, though. He left for his so-called spirit quest, probably to find Lu Ten, his only son, and hadn’t returned since. If Zuko died, would his father dare the Spirit World for him?

_“Father’s going to kill you. Really, he is.”_

Four attempts, in fact, from the moment he was born.

Or perhaps through every pain—in his jibes and his strikes and his manipulations and his indifference—he’d been slowly killing him all along.

"Looks like the neighboring villages were spared."

Startled, Zuko turned to see Song who was watching the scene with uncharacteristic sadness.

"The Fire Nation took all the men in our village," she continued. "I haven't seen my father since then."

She sat down to tell him stories like she always did. Her father could eat an entire roast duck. Her father doted on their ostrich horse, but she was clearly the animal’s favorite. Her father read stories to her when she couldn't sleep. Her father protected her from the raiders who wanted her. Her father surrendered so they could live another day.

She told him about the time she prayed to her grandmother for their safety. Since “Li” was safe, she hoped the same was true for her father.

She told him how dearly she missed him.

And as Song spoke of her father with such fondness and longing, Zuko wished he could say the same.

* * *

Nightmares haunted him in his sleep. He'd moved on from wondering whether or not they'd come to guessing which one it'd be next time.

Sometimes, it'd be Captain Jee blaming him for his demise, his body a pincushion to a dozen blades.

Sometimes, it'd be Healer Hyung glowering at him with hollow eyes, tears of blood streaming down his face.

Sometimes, it'd be the pirates watching him drown in a sea of dead bodies, their taunts cutting deeper than their swords.

Sometimes, it'd be Azula burning a doll in his image, her manic laughter echoing in the desolate palace garden.

Sometimes, it'd be Mother turning to leave, her face featureless like Koh's prey.

Most times, it'd be Father searing his face on _that day_ , his touch a mockery of Mother's caress.

**With my mind I seek ways to better my country.**

_“Please, Father. I only had the Fire Nation's best interest at heart.”_

At one point the healers began giving him tea before bedtime. The nightmares still came. Sometimes, though, he'd dream of rainbow flames wrapping him in a comforting embrace that never burned. Or of Uncle in a field of lotus blooms, tea and Pai Sho warm and waiting.

* * *

“Wanna see Roast Duck?”

Song invited him to see the ostrich horse she’d been raving about the day he was finally allowed outside. She led him to the small stable behind the house where a creature he’d only seen in scrolls nested on a pile of hay. Its mane looked fluffy. Upon seeing Song, the ostrich horse stood and snorted in greeting.

Roast Duck might be double his height and an entirely different species, but Zuko was certain they’d be good friends. He would steal Song’s title as Roast Duck’s Favorite Human, and that would show Song who the _real_ junior was.

Many, many pats later, he was certain that the fluffy-looking mane was indeed a fluffy mane.

“No, you can’t ride Roast Duck. We’re walking,” the cruel girl said. Roast Duck was right for choosing him over this crazy girl. One day, they’d be heroes journeying across the Earth Kingdom, beating soldiers up, saving bullied kids, and napping on hillsides.

Maybe another time.

 _Allegedly_ on Healer Seok’s orders, she dragged him around the village every morning for “exercise.” He was certain she only wanted a servant to carry her things.

Some of the villagers stared at him as they passed, and he could imagine the outlandish stories they’d woven about the disfigured Fire child in the village clinic. A colonial boy maimed by firebenders. A trained Fire Nation spy. A wanted criminal. A banished Fire prince. His tutors had spoken at length about the horrible things the Earth Kingdom did to prisoners. It made him anxious to think that a single mistake in enemy territory could crush his hands, break his skull, or put him six feet under. He’d never felt so exposed before.

They wouldn’t stop _staring._

Around him, people who looked nothing like him conversed in their too-quick, sing-songy foreign language. Later, when he asked why they sounded different from the way Song and Healer Sun-Mi spoke to him before they established a common ground, Song explained that the Earth Kingdom had more than one language, each with their own dialects. The Earth King proclaimed a standard for official matters, but within their own communities, people still preferred their native tongue.

 _How disorganized._ While it did have dialects, the National language was the _only_ language. Prince Zuko counted it as a win for the Fire Nation. Another part claiming to be “Li” accused him of being a sour grape because he couldn't catch juicy peasant gossip.

* * *

He knew his face would never be the same. This didn't soften the blow of the confirmation that he was now ugly and broken and disgusting—

He resisted the urge to throw the mirror across the room, but _Agni_ , he wanted to _burn_ and take everything with him.

“I understand how it feels,” Song said in a quiet voice.

 _What would you know?_ he wanted to snap at her.

“The Fire Nation has hurt you.”

_The Fire Nation would never—_

She raised her skirt to reveal the red scars that snaked around her legs. “They’ve hurt me, too.”

_Wouldn’t they?_

Zuko bit his lip, and looked away. His eyes stung.

_We’re not the same._

_Because it wasn’t her father?_

Before he knew it, he was in Healer Seok’s arms with a very blurry vision and a very wet face and a very runny nose. He _wasn’t_ hugging the peasant. She just caught him by surprise, and he couldn’t get away from her hold. He _definitely wasn’t_ crying.

“Hey,” Song’s cheery voice returned after what felt like forever. “Wanna ride Roast Duck?”

* * *

Zuko _would not_ trust Earth Kingdom (people) peasants. They spoke in their (amusing) nonsense barbarian language. They (treated) prodded his wounds. They were simply (being nice) lulling him into a false sense of security.

* * *

Another purpose of their village walks was to deliver medicine to those who couldn’t leave their homes. This round’s last stop was an old lady’s house situated at the far end of the village. It was an area he’d never been to, and the path they walked was different from the usual. However, new path or not, the sights were the same wherever he looked. Collapsed roofs, boarded windows, crumbling walls—the whole village was in various stages of disrepair and poverty. Even Song’s house and clinic, which were some of the more decent buildings, had seen better days.

Yet another reason for the Fire Nation to swoop down and fix their sorry conditions.

**And with my feet may our March of Civilization continue.**

The scorch marks, lost limbs, burn scars, and missing men told him otherwise.

The old lady was waiting for them on her front porch. By now, he and Song had developed a routine. Zuko would carry the basket holding their goods and pass the packages to the customers, while Song would handle the conversation.

“Here,” the old lady said in Common, offering him a small sesame-coated candy bar. He hesitated, but the old lady forced the candy into his hand. Stunned by the sudden gesture, Zuko almost forgot to bow in thanks before the old lady retreated inside.

“It’s a sesame peanut brittle,” Song informed him as she snacked on hers. She must have seen his bewilderment as he turned the candy this way and that. “Aunt Ming’s really nice, and her brittles are great. Try it.”

Taking a tentative bite, he quietly agreed.

* * *

“Make the cuts thinner,” Song ordered him before searching the cupboards for spark rocks. 

Zuko had never cooked before. Back in the palace, food simply _appeared_. He knew they came from the Palace Kitchen, of course, but every time he snuck inside, he’d find the snacks prepared and read-to-eat. Uncle taught him how to brew tea, but tea was just _hot leaf juice._

So they shouldn’t blame him for not knowing how to chop vegetables. He twirled the kitchen knife in his hand. He’d show these carrots how _capable_ he was with blades.

“Don’t play with the knife!” Song squeaked, abandoning her search to get in the way of his mission. Healer Seok appeared by the doorway, and confiscated the knife with a disappointed sigh. Cheeks reddening, Zuko dipped his head in apology.

“Here, let me show you.”

After her demonstration, Healer Seok moved to the stove, lit a flame, and set a pot to boil. Song readied the noodles. Zuko chopped the rest of the vegetables the way Healer Seok taught him, and tried his hardest to ignore the pull of the flame. If any of them noticed how he flinched at the sight of an open fire, they didn’t give any indication.

Once the cooking was finished, they set up the dining table and sat around to eat. The soup was less seasoned than he was used to (the Earth Kingdom’s fault). The vegetable cuts were uneven (his fault). The noodles were soggy (Song’s fault).

But…it was a warm meal.

Maybe they weren’t really an uncivilized people like they said back home.

After all, these people ate family dinners that didn’t feel like an interrogation or a prelude to execution.

Maybe he was a fish out of water not because they were wrong, but because _he_ was wrong.

He didn’t deign to think until he’d left the Fire Nation that there were things his people did that these _outsiders_ were also capable of, albeit in their own way. Things his people could _never_ do, but these outsiders excelled at.

He was a frog at the bottom of a well who knew nothing of the sea. With each passing day in this foreign land of foreign people of foreign thoughts, he was slowly discovering the world beyond the well. The world the war was destroying.

He stared at the tangle of noodles and vegetables swimming in his soup.

The proud prince of the Fire Nation, heir to the Dragon Throne and the Legacy of Sozin, believed wholeheartedly that the Earth Kingdom people were helpless, mud-caked barbarians that the superior Fire Nation must save from themselves. Fire cleansed, and only those who wielded Agni’s Gift could purify those who were unfortunately born to inferior elements. The war only rages on because the barbarians were too stupid and too stubborn to accept their Gift of Civilization. He _had to believe_ , because to believe otherwise was to denounce the war, to denounce the war was to denounce the will of the Fire Lord, and to denounce the Fire Lord was to denounce the Fire Nation. What would Prince Zuko be if he was not Fire Nation?

But Li was nobody. Just a simple boy in a simple Earth Kingdom village eating a simple meal with simple people.

 _“Never forget who you are,”_ Mother told him before she disappeared.

These days, he’d rather not remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The road to Gaoling is kinda long. I'm using [this map](https://www.reddit.com/r/TheLastAirbender/comments/6ry69q/atla_highly_detailed_map_of_the_world_of_avatar/) as a rough reference. He's somewhere between Harbor Town and Gaipan rn.  
>   
>  **About the languages in this AU**  
>  Here's a quick guide. More will be explained later on.  
> Standard. The official language of the Earth Kingdom. Not all citizens speak this language (especially in remote areas). It's tonal, unlike National.  
> Upper Ring. This is the Earth Kingdom's courtly language that Zuko knows.  
> National. The official language of the Fire Nation. Spoken by all Fire Nationals.  
> Caldera. The Fire Nation's courtly language named after the Royal Caldera City where the Royal Family and other nobles reside. A fancier version of National.  
> Common. The trade language. This is the most widely spoken language in the Four Nations.
> 
> Reminder that this fic uses East Asian age reckoning. The modern equivalent is typically -1, so Zuko is 12 and Song is 13.
> 
> Selective Mutism ([Overview](https://selectivemutismcenter.org/whatisselectivemutism/) / [NHS](https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/selective-mutism/) / POVs [1](https://www.reddit.com/r/mute/comments/gpudbc/questions_for_people_who_cannot_speak/), [2](https://digest.bps.org.uk/2015/07/08/the-experiences-of-adults-with-selective-mutism-in-their-own-words/)) ```~~I may or may not be projecting just a teeny bit haha~~```


	3. A Journey of a Thousand Miles (Begins with One Misstep)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko tries to help.  
> Some things go well, but most things don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Don't hurt Zuko he's baby  
> Also Me:

He hid the blush coloring his cheeks behind the slate. 

**_“Can I help you here?”_ **

“The sight isn’t always pleasant at the clinic, Li,” Healer Seok said in an attempt to dissuade him. Zuko maintained his gaze on the healer, roping her into an impromptu staring contest to prove just how serious he was. Seeing that he wouldn’t relent, she huffed a laugh and smiled. “But if you insist, sure. You can do some chores.”

“However,” Healer Seok cautioned, raising a finger to emphasize the point, “if you think something is too much, it’s okay to back away.”

Zuko wouldn’t _back away_. He’d already learned what happened to cowards.

* * *

The hustle and bustle of the village clinic was unlike the peace and privacy of the Royal Clinic he'd frequented before... _this_.

His introduction to the Royal Clinic and its resident healer was embarrassing, to say the least. Healer Hyung caught him sneaking around in search of a remedy for the stinging red mark his father's "discipline" had left on his wrist. Startled from his rummaging, Zuko broke several vials, which resulted in even _worse_ injuries when he tried to pick the shards up. A few stern words and a lot of grumbling (but none of the lashes he'd anticipated) later, the healer convinced him to stay for treatment, wrenching a confession out of him in the process.

Afterwards, he inadvertently found himself at the Royal Clinic for a variety of injuries.

"If you want to be here so badly, you can always come without a new injury or two," Healer Hyung told him once. Both of them knew that his injuries were not always accidental, but both also understood that neither could do anything except deal with the aftermath. Nevertheless, Zuko took this as an invitation to visit anytime, and the Royal Clinic became a place of reprieve like the turtleduck pond.

The last time Zuko was there was right after the Agni Kai, but the delirium didn't allow much of his brief stay to be remembered. When the fever haze cleared, he expected the familiar healer by his side. He never expected to be in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar ship.

At the Royal Clinic, Healer Hyung was a serious man—a professional through and through. Aboard the ship, though, his careful mask had somehow cracked, his emotions oozing from the gaps as he fretted over him like a mother turtleduck.

"Are you okay?" Zuko had asked, and the healer, for reasons he couldn’t quite guess, burst into uncontrollable tears.

_Is he okay?_

Here, he cut his musings off for fear of the answer.

* * *

Zuko had been helping around the clinic doing simple tasks for Healer Seok and Healer Sun-Mi. He fetched tools and herbs for them, wrote down prescription from dictation, and took inventory of their supplies.

It was during an inventory that he found the tattered scrolls stacked unceremoniously in a dusty corner. Many of them, to his dismay, were charred and barely legible—the characters were either marred by soot or smudged by water.

“Oh, those are medical texts. We tried to save them from the fire,” Song admitted sheepishly. Apparently, in a moment of panic, she smothered the flames with water instead of sand. _That explained the water damage._

While most were written in Standard, some were in Common. He couldn’t understand the jargon, but he thought he could copy the characters and recreate the scrolls. When Song learned of his idea, she offered to dictate for him with a huge smile on her face. 

* * *

**_“Slow down!”_** Zuko slapped the slate for emphasis.

Their little rewriting project was harder than Zuko thought. For one, although he could read and understand the language just fine, he wasn’t used to writing in Common as someone who wrote almost exclusively in his own country’s script. This difficulty became immediately obvious to him when Song started her dictation. Blanking out in the middle of writing, he would sometimes place the wrong stroke or confuse whole characters with another. There were many words that he, to his embarrassment, didn’t even know how to spell.

To compound the challenge, Song would often forget to slow down, and in his scramble to catch up he would accidentally slip into his cursive script that was near-indecipherable to everyone but him and Azula.

(Azula used to make fun of his…derivative works. He let her read those admittedly bad stories and his subsequent attempts at originals, and she always returned them with scathing comments written all over the pages. He shuddered at the thought of his sister finding his secret stash of manuscripts.)

After a considerable span of not only time but also wasted paper, Song threw her hands up, and suggested that _he_ dictate and _she_ write. There were two flaws to this suggestion, however: one, Zuko couldn’t speak, yet; and two, Song’s handwriting, it turned out after a demonstration, was arguably worse than Zuko’s.

If he was being honest, Zuko would prefer it if he simply copied the text without Song’s help like he’d initially intended to do. Unfortunately for him, Song was so enthusiastic about teaming up that he didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.

(He didn’t want to see that sad look again.)

( _Maybe I need note-taking practice._ )

There were missing words. She could fill those in.

Besides, a person of mediocre skills like him had no choice but to do something over and over again until he did it right. If there were two things he’d always been good at, they were _suffering_ and _being stubborn_.

And so, the two returned to their previous arrangement.

* * *

“To alleviate the fever, suck on live, frozen wood frogs.”

Zuko stopped writing to shoot Song an “Are you serious?” look.

“Yeah, it’s like an earthy ice pop that gets slimy and wiggly when it—HEY, I’m serious!”

* * *

`Prescription: 1 adult wood frog (frozen), taken orally until thawed`

Healer Sun-Mi did not bat an eye when she dictated the prescription.

The patient’s mother did not bat an eye when she read the prescription.

The delirious patient wiggled and flailed on the cot while she blathered on about defeating the Earth King with her waterbending prowess ( _But you’re an earthbender?_ ). She called Zuko a baby bear ( _But which kind?_ ) all the while offering him a piece of rock to eat ( _No?_ ).

Zuko hoped he never caught whatever disease that was.

* * *

“Don’t come near me,” the patient told him in an icy tone that perfectly matched her icy glare. Zuko stopped in his tracks. _One of those people._ His eyes found Song’s, and he went in her direction to hand over the jar of ointment he was supposed to bring to the woman.

“I don’t get why you’re so fond of that little ashmaker after what they’ve done to us, Seok.”

“He’s just a child, Nari. He didn’t do this to us.”

 _“_ Really? Ashmakers will always grow up to be _ashmakers_!”

“Come, Li,” Healer Sun-Mi’s soft words cut through the other women’s loud voices. “Help me draw up some water.” Her hand holding his, she ushered him out of the clinic, away from the ensuing argument. The woman's words echoed in his ears.

* * *

After several gruelling days of copying, transcribing, and occasional bickering in between, Zuko and Song _finally_ finished one-scroll worth of medical text.

When Healer Seok saw their first complete rewrite, she smiled at them like she always did (as if she never tired of doing so). “You are such good children, Song, Li,” she said. “Both of you did well.”

For the first time since his burn, Zuko allowed himself to return a smile.

* * *

“ _The Art of Temptation: A Steamy Encounter in the Dark. Uncensored version.”_

**_“What’s ‘uncensored’?”_ **

“NO. Put that away, you two.”

* * *

Even though rewriting scrolls in the clinic’s back office ate a good chunk of their free time and energy, Zuko and Song continued their village rounds. Little by little, thanks in part to these regular walks, Zuko was regaining the balance that his reduced senses had thrown off-kilter. His left side’s vision and hearing were both working at a lesser degree, but were still _working_ , miraculously, in spite of the massive physical damage his father had dealt him—a small relief in his sea of troubles.

Today’s village round brought them to a rundown shack he’d never been to, to a customer he’d never seen before. The woman greeted Song in a jovial voice, but didn’t bother acknowledging him beyond a sidelong glance. He scowled in response. One of _those_ rude people, then.

He’d been helping the clinic long enough to get used to her kind, but part of him wished they didn’t take him at face value. But he understood: no matter how many layers of earthy hues he put on, he could never hide the pale skin and the ever-burning eyes that marked him as an outsider—as the very picture of their _enemy_.

And he was the enemy’s _prince._

(Maybe, if he didn’t always hold his head high or didn’t always look people straight in the eyes, they wouldn’t notice the tell-tale molten gold in stark contrast with their browns and greens. But Zuko was born and raised royalty, and royalty, whether or not they realized it, did not simply bow down to anyone.)

They talked in their native tongue. The woman never addressed him, but she kept on sneering at him throughout her conversation with Song. Song seemed uncomfortable and spoke with a noticeable effort to keep her voice even and respectful.

“Thank you for your patronage,” Song told the woman after handing her the package herself. It was then that Zuko noticed the woman’s disfigured hand, burnt fingers curled into permanent claws like a turtle crab’s. 

They bowed and left.

Once they were a good distance away from the shack, Song paused to ask, “You okay?”

Zuko continued walking. _If_ he didn’t feel fine, she didn’t have to know.

* * *

There was a section on firebenders in the scroll Zuko was copying without Song’s assistance.

The scroll read: `Firebenders have higher heat tolerance than non-firebenders. Their skin does not burn easily.`

_That’s true. You need intent._

`Firebenders are also able to control the temperature of their flames, making it possible for those who have sufficient mastery to choose whether or not their flames burned the target.`

_So the Fire Nation chose to burn the world?_

Song’s. That rude woman’s. He remembered the damage he’d seen on the people of this village alone.

Absently, Zuko reached for his face.

_…Father’s choice is obvious._

* * *

There was a familiar expression on the little boy’s face, one Zuko had often seen his father wear. “Mom said I shouldn’t play with you ‘cause you’re a spark rock, and if I did the ashmakers will burn my face off like yours.”

“Kijong!” Song chastised the younger child, who decided he was having none of it and ran off in the middle of her scolding.

For an insult like this, Prince Zuko would have yelled and thrown flames. “Li” did neither. He didn’t know what a “spark rock” was, but he did know that an “ashmaker” was what set his face alight.

* * *

Sun-Mi looked pained throughout her explanation of “spark rocks.”

Later, he realized what _that_ familiar expression on the boy’s face was.

It was disdain.

* * *

Zuko snuck into Roast Duck’s stable that night. He always did whenever he wanted to be alone, but not _really_ alone. Whenever he had a bad day. Whenever his thoughts became too much. Or just whenever.

He ran his hands through the ostrich horse’s mane as he lay down on the hay with the animal. Roast Duck leaned into his touch. By then, he was fairly certain of his position as Roast Duck’s Favorite Human; Song had yet to accept her defeat, but both Healer Seok and Healer Sun-Mi had noticed the ostrich horse’s _clear_ preference.

 _“Maybe you can find a nice Earth Kingdom family to adopt you,”_ came Azula’s taunt.

He rested his chin on Roast Duck’s head, taking care not to let his scar touch her mane.

_Is that a bad thing, though?_

He’d felt very insulted back then. His sister had insinuated that Father and Grandfather—that his own family would abandon him.

Well, Grandfather did. Father did. Mother did.

_“Never forget who you are.”_

And what did she leave him with? Just some stupid words that haunted him every stupid day in this stupid Earth Kingdom village.

The healers were nice Earth Kingdom people. But maybe, maybe if they found out who he really was—that he wasn’t Li, but Zuko, son of Ursa and Fire Lord Ozai—

Roast Duck protested his tight grip on her mane.

— _maybe they’d hate me, too._

* * *

The day started like any other day at the clinic.

Until the shouting began.

Another village was raided by the Fire Nation, and the injured fled to theirs in search of healers. Many were suffering from second- to third-degree burns. Others were covered in deep cuts from lethal non-benders and rampaging komodo-rhinos. An earthbender who came with the group had to erect a makeshift tent on the streets when the sheer number of patients overwhelmed the small clinic’s interior. Healer Seok and Healer Sun-Mi were no doubt skilled healers, but they were ill-equipped for this level of emergency.

“Li, fetch me some water, please,” Healer Seok called out from where she and Healer Sun-Mi were trying to calm another injured man. The anesthesia was taking its time.

Hearing the urgency of the request, Zuko immediately appeared with a washbasin, holding it out for Healer Sun-Mi who swiftly got to work on the man’s wounds. The man thrashed and screamed against his companion’s hold, the constant stream of reassurances doing nothing to quell the man’s panic. Amid the commotion, the metallic tang of blood and burnt flesh invaded Zuko’s nose, daring him to look—

“YOU—!”

—to see the unbridled hatred in the man’s eyes.

“THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! CURSED ASHMAKERS!”

More shouting followed, but no words made it past the haze. Zuko was not sure why he was on the floor or why the basin was now empty, floating in a murky puddle by his feet. Someone was trying to move him elsewhere but his body was a boulder refusing to budge. Healer Seok was saying something, her face suddenly in front of his, and when he finally came to he was already in the back office curtained off from the bloody chaos.

“Li? Li, are you okay?”

Zuko was far from “okay”—he wasn’t even breathing right—but he was nodding anyway.

“I’m sorry, Li. I’m really, really sorry. Stay here. I need to go back there, but you’ll be safe here. Nobody’s going to hurt you, okay? We won’t let them.”

He didn’t want her to waste more time on him, not when people were hurting and dying beyond those white drapes (because of the Fire Nation, because of _his people)_ , so he swallowed the bile, the tears, and the disgusting emotions clawing from within, then let her go with another nod.

He was unworthy of their compassion.

He sat there, alone, surrounded by screams and whimpers.

He needed to do _something_ to help. He was scared of going out there, yet he needed to do something—anything—because this was their fault, _his fault_ , and that meant he needed to do _something._

 _“Remember your breaths, Prince Zuko,”_ he remembered Uncle saying. But did he even deserve the luxury of fixing his breaths when people outside were losing theirs?

Something. Right.

Zuko found one of the charred scrolls. He began rewriting despite his shaky hands.

* * *

The whole village was on edge. People remained indoors and shuttered their houses. In the distance, smoke rose in thick plumes like black serpents waiting to strike.

Zuko was on edge. Still rattled from the incident at the clinic, he berated himself for lowering his guard in enemy territory just because _some_ people had been nice to him. Reduced hearing and visual acuity were not excuses to be sloppy (really, he’d had worse). Quickly, he fell back into his old habits in the palace—ones that let him survive his father’s ire and Azula’s surprise attacks. Expect danger at every turn. Be quieter than a pygmy puma. Keep all movements efficient and purposeful. Stay invisible.

He’d spooked Song many times with his imperceptible movements. It would have been hilarious if not for the dark cloud of danger looming over them.

Of course, Song was also on edge. They’d already suffered through a raid half a year prior, and this recent event must have brought back terrifying memories. She told him that they hadn’t experienced this level of emergency since their own village’s raid, and at that time she hadn’t been inducted as an apprentice, yet, to see the raw damage on her people.

Their village rounds were suspended indefinitely. Healer Seok had warned them never to leave the house unless necessary. Not that Zuko left for purposes other than deliveries, especially after his encounter with that boy Kijong.

In between patient care and the usual chores, scrolls took their minds off things. Song had even pulled out a scroll on beginner-level Standard to teach him essential words and sentences.

“Just in case,” she said, keeping the rest vague and unspoken.

_Just in case we get separated. Just in case you get stuck in the Earth Kingdom with nobody else. Just in case the worst came._

Healer Seok had begun packing bags for each of them. _Just in case we had to flee._ Clothes, valuables, and emergency rations went first. Scrolls, clinic supplies, the ancestral shrine, and everything else would follow if they had enough space and warning. Zuko’s clothes were few, so food and medical supplies occupied most of his bag’s space.

“Hopefully, we wouldn’t have to,” Healer Seok muttered while neatly folding and stuffing Song’s clothes in her designated bag.

Zuko wanted to hope, too. Considering his luck, though, he worried.

* * *

A day after the flood of patients, Zuko opened the clinic’s door to two Earth Kingdom soldiers.

Of course. His luck.

Instinctively, he took a step back, bumping into Healer Seok who placed a steadying hand on his tense shoulders.

“We’d like to speak to Healer Seok,” one of the men announced, tearing his sharp gaze away from him.

Healer Seok’s hand gently turned him around. Zuko cautiously retreated inside to resume his duties, working just far enough from the three so he can still hear their conversation. “That would be me, sir.”

“As you may have already known, the Fire Nation has become more aggressive ever since they lost their Crown Prince. . .”

_What?_

Zuko stiffened. Why would they, when—

_“Off with that little fiery spawn and his entourage, he said!”_

Zuko’s grip on the jar he was carrying slacked, and only through quick reflexes did he manage to catch the jar before it hit the floor.

“. . . and as the situation stands, we must ask you to evacuate this village tomorrow.”

He disappeared into the back office. _What is Father playing at? Why is he—_

His breath hitched at the image of his father’s sadistic smile, the same smile plastered on his face when he—

 _“This is your fault, Zuko,”_ he could almost hear him say against his ear.

* * *

  1. **_The Earth Kingdom will kill me._**
  2. **_The Earth Kingdom will hold me for ransom. Father will kill me._**
  3. **_The Fire Nation will capture me and deliver me to Father. Father will kill me._**
  4. **_Father will kill me._**



He wiped the slate clean with his sleeve. His mind remained a mess.

* * *

A different soldier was talking to Healer Seok on the day of the evacuation. An officer, from the looks of his decorated uniform.

The two adults went over the evacuation plan. The clinic’s supplies were valuable resources, so the military had arranged for their transport. The patients from the other village had already been carted off to a bigger facility. Keeping his distance, Zuko put on a mask of indifference as he packed the remaining scrolls into a small wooden chest. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched.

“Is this the young Fire child my men mentioned?”

Startled, Zuko straightened up and caught the soldier’s eyes. The man gave him a long hard look that sent shivers down his spine.

_They’re going to kill me._

His feet had already slid into a kata by the time his mind registered what his body was doing.

Smirking, the soldier addressed him in heavily accented National, “So young, yet already walking like a soldier. Can Fire Nation spider snakes spit venom right after hatching?”

His mind screamed for him to run-run- _run—_

Healer Seok blocked the soldier’s view. “Li helps us out in the clinic, sir.”

“How long has he been with you?”

“A while.”

“Parents?”

“Refugee colonials. He’s the only one left. Should we start loading our supplies into the carts, sir?”

“Yes. Of course, Healer Seok.”

As soon as the soldier left, Healer Seok spun on her heel to find him. Zuko refused to be found. 

* * *

_I can’t stay._

_I can’t return._

_I can’t return to Father._

**_Father will kill me._ **

* * *

Roast Duck rose up in excitement when he entered her stable. With quick, light-footed steps, Zuko closed the gap between him and the ostrich horse. Roast Duck met his hands as he reached up to touch her mane. 

_“Just take the ostrich horse, Zuzu,”_ Azula’s voice told him.

They nursed him back to health. They offered him a place to stay in. They treated him, a stranger who was the very image of their enemy, with respect and compassion.

These people had shown him kindness.

_And what did you give them in return, Prince Zuko?_

He straightened himself, adjusted his bag’s strap, and took a long, steadying breath. He left without the ostrich horse.

“Li!”

He hadn’t even taken a couple of steps away from the stable when he saw Healer Seok running towards him with her own baggage strapped across her person.

“Come, Li. We have to go now.”

_No. I can’t._

He could hear a voice in his head telling him _he could,_ but he couldn’t, because he couldn’t—

He dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground.

_“Never forget who you are.”_

He was Zuko, Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, prostrated before an Earth Kingdom peasant. He could feel his tears coming. Before his resolve could falter, before his voice could retreat, he forced himself to speak.

“I-I’m sorry.”

_For my family’s war._

_For my Nation’s atrocities._

_For ruining your lives._

“Li? Please stand, why are you—”

_For being a coward._

_“Stand up and fight!”_

_RUN._

Zuko stood up and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: What defines Zuko?  
> Me: ...bad decisions?
> 
> Zuko hasn’t really considered the deeper implications of his mother’s parting words. Right now, his idea of “who he is” is tied deeply to his role as a son and as a Fire Nation prince. He’s having trouble reconciling reality with what he was raised to believe in (on top of his family issues), and the stark difference is leading him to some dangerous assumptions (more on this next chapter). The healers are nice and all, but they’re unaware of this child’s mental gymnastics.
> 
> Next chapter: Zuko wanders for a bit.


	4. Roadblocks and Detours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko drifts. The young play heroes. The old gossip among themselves. Letters fly left and right as dissidents wreak havoc in the Earth Kingdom. Spirit tales are born. Despite everything, no mask can hide a lost child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Mild depiction of death and violence**
> 
> This chapter’s storytelling is a bit...experimental because I didn’t want to write 1) Zuko's feelings, again; and 2) a typical Blue Spirit story where he just goes around fighting people. You might need to reread it to see how the pieces fell into place. 
> 
> It got out of hand so I added "worldbuilding for communication nerds" in the tags hahaha
> 
> Big thanks to [Dramono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramono/pseuds/Dramono) for suggesting "a run in with the singing nomads." The prompt changed this chapter big time.

_“It’s the Blue Spirit!”_

_Stolen face. Stolen blades. A stolen name to add to his collection._

_Names held power. To bind. To sever. To define._

_Well, if that was what they_ believed _he was, then that was what he shall_ be _to them._

_The Blue Spirit, as they had called the lithe figure, danced through the onrush of soldiers to a rhythm only he could hear—his twin blades reflecting Tui’s silver light._

_A traitorous Blue in a blaze of Red, in defiance of Agni’s Will on Earth, if it truly was His and not a mere pretender’s._

_Weaving through a maze of limbs—all grasping for him, all seeking to contain him— he saw the ostrich horses, their wary eyes trained on his advance. Pummelling the last soldier in his way with the hilt of his dao, he sprinted in their direction and vaulted over the food trough to mount the nearest hen. As he kicked his stolen beast into action, he slashed at the others’ tethers and sent them screeching to his pursuers._

_“He’s getting away!”_

_"No, don't! He'll curse us!"_

_A wild swing grazed his leg as he made his exit._

_But they should know by now that it would take more than a sloppy swordsman to stop him._

_He kicked the offender in retaliation and rode away to join the forest’s shadows._

* * *

“Hey, come on. We have stuff to do.” Song nudged his side, exasperated.

“Whatever, Song.”

“I’ll draw on your face if you keep snoozing.”

The sun wasn’t even up, yet. He’s a firebender; he rose with Agni. Why was she up so early anyway? He turned away from her and buried his face in the pillow.

“I’m going to feed you a frozen frog if you don’t get moving already.”

Where would she even get those at this time? It wasn’t like they kept an icebox of froggy ice pops. But he had to admit, he was rather curious about the taste.

Begrudgingly, he turned to face her. Healer Seok was behind Song with that trademark smile of hers.

“Wake up, Li.”

Zuko woke up to a throbbing pain in his leg and a beak poking his ribs. If, unlike his firebending, his sense of Agni hadn’t betrayed him, yet, then it should be around midnight. He sat up with a groan and blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the darkness. Peanut Brittle stirred at the movement, snorted as if to mock him, and then returned to ostrich horse dreamland. The autumn chill bit into his face to remind him of his fireless campsite and his pitiful inability to summon flames. He dug into his bag for his blanket and spark rocks.

His aching leg told him to change his bloody bandages. Taking care not to put pressure on his injured side, he walked towards the pile of sticks at the center of his camp. Maybe tonight, he could finally do it. He rearranged the pit and picked the sticks one by one as if he could divine the answer to his problem in dead plant parts. With a sigh, he tossed the last stick into the pit and prepared to strike the spark rocks against each other.

. . . maybe not tonight.

With another sigh, he resigned himself to another long, cold evening.

After cleaning his wound and changing his bandages, he dragged himself back to Peanut Brittle’s side. The ostrich horse snapped at him for the disturbance, but settled down after a consoling touch. Wrapped in a blanket that held the fading scent of herbs and life in a faraway village clinic, Zuko snuggled against the warm ostrich horse and drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

` _To: Captain Inshun  
From: First Lieutenant Liang_`

` _The “Blue Spirit”_ `

` _The “Blue Spirit” is in the area, but rumors of the saboteur’s spirithood should be dismissed. We have reason to believe that the saboteur is mortal: one of my men reported wounding him with a blade._ `

` _He infiltrated the Eastern Garsai Outpost last night. We found him in the food storehouse, and a fight ensued. A quarter of the reserves were damaged when overenthusiastic firebenders shot at the saboteur while he was inside. He managed to escape into the forest on a stolen ostrich horse, but our subsequent search unfortunately turned up nothing. The secretary reports a number of confidential documents missing._ `

` _Regretfully, the "Blue Spirit" caught us by surprise, and we shall suffer dire consequences. However, this most recent encounter has shown me what may be the saboteur’s fatal weakness. I suspect that this “spirit” is averse to fire, which is quite fitting for one who wears the Dark Water Spirit’s mask._ `

(Undelivered.)

* * *

Zuko rolled up the small piece of paper and walked over to Peanut Brittle who was trying to nip at Extra-Spicy Noodle. Tugging on her rein, he moved the ostrich horse a few paces away before coaxing the hawk with a piece of jerky. Taking advantage of Extra-Spicy Noodle’s distraction, Zuko slipped the paper inside the messenger tube strapped across the bird’s body and made sure that the lid was screwed securely.

Peanut Brittle was back, standing impatiently behind him and asking for attention she thought she was being denied. Absently, Zuko nudged her beak away from his messy hair and gave her a few scratches as he waited for the hawk to finish eating. After some last-minute petting, he sent the hawk on its way, and he began his trek with Peanut Brittle in the opposite direction.

* * *

`_Classified Information_ `  
`* * * * * * * * * * * *`  
`THE EARTH KINGDOM ARMY`

`Regarding the So-Called Blue Spirit`

`The Council has received and verified the reports of a mysterious entity who has been sabotaging Fire Nation outposts and supply lines in the Western Region. As there have been no reports of hostility against Earth Kingdom military forces, the Council has tentatively classified the so-called Blue Spirit as a non-threat.`

`Forces are hereby advised to ignore the so-called Blue Spirit, unless provoked.`  
  
`Signed: General How, The Council of Five`  
`Acknowledged: General Fong`

* * *

` _Hello, Captain Inshun._ `

` _Call me Fire Flakes. Hawky is a stupid name. Do me a favor and demote whoever came up with that. Come to think of it, calling everything in the Fire Nation “Fire something” is also somewhat stupid. Fire Lord, Fire Army, Fire Navy, Fire Sages, Fire Islands, Fire Flakes. On second thought, don’t call me Fire Flakes. Maybe Extra-Spicy Fire Noodle, but without Fire in it._ `

` _Best regards,_ `

` _Extra-Spicy Noodle_ `

Captain Inshun read the message over and over again, trying to decipher its meaning to no avail. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what kind of cipher it was, and his subordinates proved equally useless in untangling the mystery.

If there was one thing they learned from the message, though, it was that Extra-Spicy Noodle was indeed a better name than Hawky.

* * *

`Fire Nation Regional Command - West`

`Southern Garsai Outpost`

`*************`  
`TRAVEL PERMIT`  
`*************`

`Issued to Hori of Gaipan`

`The holder of this permit is hereby granted safe passage along the Garsai-Gaipan route.`

`Valid for mercantile purposes only.`

`By authority of Colonel Rei`

* * *

Peanut Brittle pulled an earthworm from the dirt and greedily chomped on the poor thing before scratching the ground again for other snack-worthy critters. Zuko watched the ostrich horse with disinterest as he chewed on an apple that smelled like smoke and tasted like ash.

They were out of food.

He guessed that his meager meal would quiet his stomach for a while, but if the dents Peanut Brittle had poked in his sedge hat were any indication, he figured that no amount of bugs would satisfy his companion.

* * *

_“Mr. Blue Spirit, sir! Please don’t kill me!”_

_Prayers were useless. He never killed._

_He took his spoils and left the shivering merchant._

* * *

`_My friend Jinhao,_ `

` _Remote you may be, but the news of the twice-drowned Jingwei must have already reached you. One of White Daruma's wayward sparklers was promoted after crushing the assailants of the little bird and his flock. As expected, White Daruma is very much displeased; the old coot's grumblings will surely find their way to your ears soon._ `

` _After months with Onion-Banana, Ginseng is back to stirring the boiling cauldron. A shame he would have to postpone his plans of a traveling tea cart, but perhaps it is for the best that he watch the remaining chick. We might not hear from him for a while._ `

` _An elusive individual known as the Blue Spirit has been terrorizing Fire Nation camps and settlements on this side. The Earth Kingdom is taking it as a blessing. His exploits have bolstered errant groups and have garnered the attention of the higher ups. Consequently, we have been ordered to produce hundreds of wanted posters on short notice. Would you help ease this poor clerk's aching joints? A hundred copies should do. I will make sure you receive appropriate compensation, and I will even send some white dragon bush as a bonus._ `

` _Enclosed is a sample poster. There is no scar to put on the wrong side this time. I have not forgiven you and White Daruma for that prank._ `

` _Hardy as always,_ `

` _Kuretake_ `

* * *

In the distance, an orange ball of flame, intense and unblinking like the eye of a cat owl scouting for prey, flickered into existence amid the darkness of the forest. 

From inside the pitch-black cave he had taken shelter in, Zuko watched with bated breath as the eerie flame glided nearer and nearer. Even the grouchy ostrich horse held herself still, submitting herself to her companion's firm embrace. 

Closer now, he could see the outline of the flame's wielder—an elderly man whose sour countenance was made harsher by the twin scars running vertically on the right side of his face, temple to cheek. He would be all the more intimidating if it were not for what looked like an albino baby boar-q-pine resting on his head. 

Idly, Zuko tugged at his hair, much longer and much messier now than it had ever been back at the clinic after days, weeks—months?—of wandering. He should trim it tomorrow. 

Prickly hair aside, by the way the old man carried himself—smooth, efficient, poised for battle at any moment—he must be or must have been a soldier. Zuko's guess leaned on the latter on the oversimple argument that he wore dirty and tattered clothes instead of the prescribed uniform. 

But his own clothes were starting to get filthy as well; he really had no right to judge. He should wash them tomorrow. 

The old man should stop reminding him of his chores. 

Zuko's hold on Peanut Brittle loosened only once the old man was out of sight. He did not attempt a campfire that night.

The next morning, Zuko made good on his promise to not look like a boar-q-pine perch, although his reflection on the river told him his hair was now a bird's nest. 

He was deliberating another go at the spark rocks when he heard someone whistling an eerie melody. Turning to its source, he caught sight of a group of five Fire Nation men on komodo-rhinos some distance away. 

It was time to move out. Good thing his laundry was just about done. 

* * *

`_CLASSIFIED _ `

`From: Fire Army Headquarters  
To: Regional Command - West  
Re: Disruptions Caused by Errant Groups and Individuals`

`Forces are advised to be on the lookout following reports of increased bandit activity in the Garsai-Gaipan territories. Of particular note among the dissidents are the Gaipan Bandit Group and the so-called Blue Spirit. `

`The venerable Fire Sages highly doubt the spirithood of the so-called Blue Spirit and assure everyone that no curse will befall those who encounter him, contrary to popular belief. Thus, forces are expected to engage and neutralize the so-called Blue Spirit without hesitation the next time he appears. `

`By order of General Bujing`

(Stolen and destroyed in transit.)

* * *

“I know your type. You’re an outcast, too, aren’t you?”

It was the leader, he assumed, of the trio of children who, for whatever reason, decided to waltz into his camp uninvited. Apparently, there were other people who excelled at bad decision-making. 

“Name’s Jian," the leader, who was perhaps his age or older, introduced himself with a self-assured smile. Zuko wondered how he could speak without dropping the wheat stalk he was chewing. 

Wheat-Chewer gestured to his companions, a tall boy and a short girl, "These are my friends, Feng and Tao.”

The girl said something in her native tongue, and the tall boy nodded in acknowledgement. 

They just...stood there. 

"Well? Your name?" Wheat-Chewer asked, brows furrowed.

Zuko returned the scowl, then scrawled _Li_ on the ground with his finger.

“Li, then." Wheat-Chewer's smirk returned. After a silent conversation with Tao, Feng spoke to Zuko in her native tongue again. 

**_"Common, please,"_** he wrote. Now it was the girl's turn to frown at him. Either she did not speak Common or she did not know how to read. His fingernail caught dirt underneath, but he did not want to waste chalk on a useless conversation. 

"You’re a quiet one, huh? Just like Tao here. He hasn’t spoken since, well, the Fire Nation burned our village.”

Zuko did not know what to do with that information. It seemed that the trio did not know what to do with him either. 

Wheat-Chewer cleared his throat. "Okay, here's the deal. We figured you're like us, so we should, you know, stick together." His eyes flicked from Zuko's scar to where his dao rested. In a lower voice, he continued, "We're heading for the West Resistance's base. Why don't you come with us?"

He had never heard of a group with that name. Considering their location, it must be _that group_. 

**_"The one in Gaipan?"_ **

"Yeah, that."

Fire Nationals referred to them as the "Gaipan Bandit Group." Zuko could not deny that the difference in names was curious. 

He stood up and dusted himself. It was not like he had specific places to be.

* * *

This decision, he realized immediately, was another one of his worst.

The wheat-chewer just kept _talking._ Blue Spirit this, West Resistance that. He did not want to waste his dwindling chalk supply, but Zuko had to pull his slate out when stopping every now and then to write responses on the dirt became too inconvenient for everyone. He looked at Tao hoping to find an ally in his fellow non-talker, but the boy merely shrugged as if to say, “This is our life now. Sorry.”

"Not to brag, but we managed to steal a Fire Nation message from a courier."

**_"What did it say?"_ **

"Don't know. Can't read ashmaker talk. But I could make out the words for _curse_ , _Garsai_ , _Blue Spirit,_ and _Gaipan group_." 

Those were some of the characters Common and National shared. Zuko recalled several others, mildly amused by the fact that lots of words and characters in Common meant the same thing in National. Still, they had different sentence structures, so he did not blame Wheat-Chewer for not understanding anything. 

Interestingly, National and the Earth Kingdom language he had learned at the palace were in a similar relationship. For two very distinct languages that were nowhere alike when spoken, they sure had a lot of common characters when written. He wondered who immitated who, but his tutors never mentioned anything about this peculiarity. Perhaps out of residual princely pride, he assumed it was the Earth Kingdom that did the copying. 

The conversation had lulled while he was spacing out. Wheat-Chewer was quiet for once, and Feng was humming an upbeat tune. 

Wheat-Chewer's silence did not last for long, however. He joined in on the humming, then eventually broke out into song. 

* * *

_White fangs glinting by the moonlight_

_Twin blades to snuff out the blight_

_Cloaked in silence, harbored in shadows_

_Against the blaze, the Blue Spirit goes_

* * *

`_My foolhardy friend Kuretake,_ `

` _You cannot fault me and White Daruma for wanting to give the pursuers a little more challenge; it is his fine mug at stake, after all. Although I must say, with that boar-q-pine hairstyle of his, it is already quite difficult to see the regal seadog he once was._ `

` _Unlike Ginseng, I do know how to tell the difference between a white dragon and a white jade. You cannot rid yourself of me so easily. But I jest. What use would a dead old scribe be to you? A hundred posters, it is. Consider it my apology (though we all know nobody is sorry)._ `

` _Your good pen,_ `

` _Jinhao_ `

* * *

The West Resistance was neither the battle-hardened adults nor the highly-organized group Zuko had expected. Their members were young, ranging from seven to twenty five years old by his estimation. Their "base" was high up in the trees, neither grounded nor heavily-fortified like Fire Nation military bases. 

With kids running around, the place felt like a playground. Grin assured them they were perfectly capable fighters. Zuko had to agree once he saw their senior members sparring. 

Earlier, their members had tested their fighting abilities to see how they would fit in. The three idiots with him were able to handle themselves just fine. He flunked his test on purpose and pretended to be too scared to fight. The massive scar on his face was a convincing excuse. 

Come dinner time, they sat around a campfire listening to people's sob life stories as they ate. At some point, those who could had started singing that ridiculous Blue Spirit song Wheat-Chewer and Feng liked so much. 

Deep into the night, two of their top leaders joined in. 

"We're not gonna ask ya for names. Here, we use codenames. Name's Ramrod. This here's my second, Grin."

Thankfully, nobody asked for their ages. He would hate to be called Wheat-Chewer's junior. 

Grin retold a convoluted tale about people losing themselves to spirits after mistakenly surrendering their names. 

“Names hold power. That’s why you should never give them away to spirits.”

He was right. Names were symbols of identity. They could bind people to roles. They could define what people were. They could even sever people from their very essence.

He had written _Li_ using the character for _mile_ , but the ways to write the word were as numerous as the people bearing the name. If he had not been panicking (and had been inclined to be a bit fancy), he might have written it using the character for _logic._

(One could write _li_ using the character for _recalcitrant._ )

Even _Zuko_ , a relatively unique name, could be written using a variety of character combinations. His mother had written it using the characters for _vertical_ and _high_ , but his uncle had shown him once how to write it using _restore_ and _law._

(One could also write _Zuko_ using the characters for _forefather_ and _enemy._ )

Feng chose Smellerbee, which did not make any sense in any language Zuko knew. 

"Call me Jet," Wheat-Chewer said. His name made even less sense than Feng's, so Zuko chose to remember him forever as Wheat-Chewer. 

Tao's name, Longshot, was the only one that Zuko approved of. 

“Ya sure ya ain’t gonna change yer name, kid?”

Names held power. To bind. To define. To sever himself from who he truly was.

(Symbols in dissonance with the essence.)

He shrugged. _Li_ wasn’t real, and _Zuko_ was dead, anyway.

* * *

_The last soldier fell on his knees. Their eyes predatory—glinting with danger and hunger and anger, the victors corralled their enemy._

_"Would you like to do the honors?" the leader asked, finding him behind the soldier. All smiles. All malice._

_He never killed._

_"Please, let me go. I won't fight you," the soldier pleaded, too afraid to turn away from the grinning man to face whoever it was behind him._

_He never killed. And so, he stood there, behind the soldier, unmoving._

_"Alright, then," the leader decided. What the decision was, he did know, but he would know soon._

_The soldier quieted, hopeful. He, too, did not know, but he would know soon._

_Then, with one swing of the leader's bloody jian—all too quick, all too forceful, all too cruel—the soldier's head rolled to finally face the Blue Spirit behind him._

* * *

` _Jinhao,_ `

` _I am postponing my visit. Rowdy brats are playing with fire, and I do not wish my robes to catch on Agni-damned stray embers._ `

` _White Daruma_ `

* * *

` _ Report _ `

`From: Regional Command - West  
To: Fire Army Headquarters  
Re: Eastern Garsai`

`The Gaipan Bandit Group aided by the Blue Spirit ambushed a relief caravan en-route to settlements in Eastern Garsai, which is currently experiencing food shortage due to poor harvest and trade disruption. `

`Per Mayor Koto of Eastern Garsai, a good number of families has already chosen to seek shelter in other territories. `

`Colonel Rei has already ordered to divert a quarter of Western Garsai's reserves to aid the citizens of Eastern Garsai during this crisis. Plans for the immediate capture of the group are being made as of writing. `

* * *

"Then, the Blue Spirit showed up outta nowhere!" 

"Ramrod, we've delivered the goods to the nearest Earth Kingdom village. The villagers send their thanks."

"Good, good. Y'all, com'ere so we can plan our next liberation. I'm thinkin' Southern Garsai next."

Zuko did not move from his spot away from the merry crowd. Smellerbee invited him to their side in stilted Common. Zuko ignored her and buried his head in his knees.

"You okay?" she asked. 

Silence should be enough answer.

* * *

` _ Report _ `

`From: Regional Command - West  
To: Fire Army Headquarters  
Re: Successful Suppression of Gaipan Bandit Group`

`Colonel Rei is pleased to report the annihilation of the Gaipan Bandit Group, which has been inconveniencing Fire Nation territories in Gaipan and Garsai.`

`The bandit group planned to ransack a small village in Southern Garsai, but scouts from the Southern Garsai Outpost managed to alert the residents and the command center ahead of time. A platoon of 20 firebenders under First Lieutenant Teito's command intercepted and subjugated their force before they could reach the settlement. `

`Among the 23 enemy casualties were the leader, Cheng (alias “Ramrod”), and the second in command, Hong (alias “Grin”). The so-called Blue Spirit, who had reportedly aided the group during their previous heist, was not present during this altercation.`

* * *

The fighters who left never returned.

Agni would want a vigil for the departed. He could not hold his own flame, but a small pyre would do.

Maybe tonight he could do it.

He gathered sticks for a campfire just as he had done every night. And just as he had done every night, he stared at the pair of spark rocks in his shaking hands, willing himself to _stop_ being afraid of _his own_ element.

He could not close his eyes for doing so would bring forth memories of hot-bright-burning- _burning—_

Hands still shaking, he struck the spark rocks and set the pile on _fire._

Hot-bright-burning- _burning fire—_

The fire flared as his heartbeat jumped. He gasped in panic and pleaded for this fire, this fear, this _fire_ to _go away._

The fire went out. The fear remained.

“You’re a firebender!”

Jet was glaring at him with the same wild eyes Zuko had seen on _that_ man at the clinic _that day_. Smellerbee and Longshot remained silent and refused to even look at him, but the anger and disdain on their faces were apparent.

"Leave, ashmaker!"

Defiance always hurt. He did as he was told this time. 

* * *

`W A N T E D`

`The So-called Blue Spirit`

`He is a saboteur and a threat to the safety of Fire Nationals.  
He wields dual dao and wears a blue theater mask.  
A group of combatants is recommended when engaging the so-called Blue Spirit.  
The Fire Sages assure the public that, contrary to his moniker, he is not in fact a spirit.`

`By decree of the Fire Lord`

* * *

` _ CLASSIFIED _ `

`From: Regional Command - West  
To: Colonel Mongke, Rough Rhinos  
Re: Immediate Suppression of the So-called Blue Spirit`

`The Rough Rhinos are hereby directed to pause the search for The Deserter. Prioritize the pursuit and subjugation of the so-called Blue Spirit and bring this miscreant to justice, dead or alive.`

`By order of General Bujing`

* * *

_The bald man crowned with plumes pinned him to the ground. The komodo rhinos circled them—slowly, slowly, slowly—like sages in ritual sacrifice._

_“Now, let’s see who’s behind that mask,” the soldier said as he brought his flaming hands closer to his face. And the Blue Spirit—_

—and Zuko no longer saw the soldier, only his _father_ looming over him to _burn him_ again for disobedience.

_“You will learn respect. . .”_

Hot-bright-burning- _burning fire—_

With a sharp inhale, Zuko snuffed the flames out and took advantage of his _father_ ’s momentary confusion to render him unconscious with a forceful hit of his sword’s hilt. Kicking him out of the way with all the strength he could muster, Zuko scrambled to get up and took off without a backward glance before his pursuers could recover from their shock.

_“. . .and suffering will be your teacher.”_

* * *

Toku was excellent at reading people. Slight movements, minute facial expressions, non-verbals other people could easily miss. Growing up with a father and a little brother who both communicated in signs, he'd learned how to interpret unspoken messages with as much ease as breathing. 

So it was with this skill of his that he knew the boy who'd stumbled upon their small camp was tired-hungry but wary-scared. To anyone else, his stoic face would give away nothing. Even Face-stealer Koh would be impressed. But Toku was not anyone else, so he _knew_. 

The boy watched them with unsettling gold eyes that reminded him of those horror tales about glowy-eyed feral children hiding in forests and stealing other kids. Did those stories say something about ostrich horses? 

It was not unusual for people of Garsai, one of the oldest colonies, to mix reds and greens; he and Koku at that instance were prime examples of this colonial culture. Moku, carefree as always, preferred wearing whites and reds despite his longstanding but unfortunate love affair with bare ground. 

The boy had nothing red on him, yet his features screamed "Fire Nation." Maybe _too_ Fire Nation, even. Just like those purebloods in the Fire Islands. Were _super_ gold eyes common over there? He was suddenly self-conscious of his colonial dialect. Island Nationals were a bit snobby sometimes. 

Before he could work out the most appropriate reaction, though, Moku beat him to the punch. 

"'Ello there, lil guy! Come on over," he said in Garsai National with that usual easygoing smile of his. His older brother could really get along with anyone. 

Koku saw their older brother waving at them and gave his own small wave. His little brother was obviously curious to see another child, so Toku signed to explain that they were inviting him to lunch. Koku then bounded over to them, signing a quick greeting. 

The boy was suspicious-interested-confused, but he did not make any move. Toku decided to follow his two brothers' examples, which both boiled down to "just roll with it." They were in the _colonies_ , anyway, so his inferiority complex could go die in a ditch.

"Koku says 'i. Come, we 'ave some soup 'ere."

The boy finally agreed when Koku dragged him by his sleeve to sit by the campfire. His ostrich horse seemed peeved, but she followed her master's lead. The hen was eyeing Koku dangerously when he veered too close, so Toku tasked him with the bowls to get him out of pecking range. 

"Justa few more stirs, and ready ta serve," Moku assured them.

"I'm Toku, and those are my brothers, Moku and Koku. Nice ta meet ye...?"

The boy pulled out a slate and wrote _Li_. 

"'Ey, ye two. Grab yer bowls and eat! This mushroom soup's really good!" Moku announced. 

They ate without conversation and with only Moku's soft humming to fill the silence.

After their meal, Li looked like he was trying to recall something. With that thoughtful expression still on him, he tried to sign something to them. Unfortunately, they weren't signs in their vocabulary, so the meaning flew over Toku’s head. He liked the kid's effort, though, so he smiled to reassure him. 

"It's very kind of ye ta try ta talk ta Koku. I think yer place and ours 'ave different languages, though? I'll teach ye ours. Can ye tell me what ye said?" 

Sheepishly, he wrote _thanks._ Toku showed him how to sign the word and added _you're welcome_ so he'd understand Koku's response. 

Once they got both signs down, Toku called Koku's attention and encouraged Li to sign. He hoped he wasn't imagining it, but he thought he saw Li's mouth quirk a little bit. Of course, the joy on Koku's face was priceless.

After a while, Li wrote a question: _What are you doing out here?_

As someone who talked a lot—stop _Toku-ing_ , his peers would joke—Toku often mused how different life was for people like Li and Koku. 

Vaguely, he remembered stories about the Royal Palace's silent guards who communicated only in signs and guarded important people during secretive affairs. It honestly sounded like the stuff of legends. Would Koku fancy that? Would they even let colonial, mixed-heritage bumpkins like them near their Agni-chosen royalty? 

He figured Li couldn't sign like Koku, but he got by through writing. Koku couldn't write well, yet, but Toku hoped his brother could learn more later on. Maybe once this crisis was over. 

Oh, right. The crisis. 

If anyone made the mistake of asking him to start from the beginning, he would probably go as far back as the era of the lionturtles. So, living up to his reputation, Toku gave Li a _very detailed_ answer. 

He started with the poor harvest. Then, the bandit and the spirit activities that scared off merchants. Next, the numerous letter requests they'd sent to the government, which were either lost to bandits and spirits or deliberately ignored because nothing happened until someone stood up and delivered the message personally. When they finally decided to send aid, bandits and spirits swooped down to steal the goods. In the end, people got up and left. 

"And _that_ , Li, is why we're out 'ere."

He must have overdone his explanation if Li's confusion-fear-unease was any indication. 

Moku plopped down beside Koku, patting his belly and signing _nap time._ Koku huffed in protest, but complied anyway. He scooted over to Moku and used his belly as his personal pillow. 

"I love afternoon nap time!" Moku declared, tapping a rhythm on his drum. 

Ah, yes. Koku's nap time also meant _that_ eerie song will be stuck in his head for a while again. The rhythm put Koku to sleep, yet Toku couldn't help but wonder if the song would have the same effect if the kid knew the lyrics. 

Children's songs tended to be like that. Warnings disguised as catchy tunes that eventually stopped making sense after passing through too many, too small lips. 

But this one was fairly recent, so it was easy to imagine the scene the song was painting. It didn't (or did?) help that children, ever carefree and innocent, decided to use the rhyme in one of their silly games—their own childish rendition of a scenario they should never have to face. 

Creepy, yes, but also very catchy. It was an earworm like that Secret Tunnel song Moku's cactus juice buddies always sang. He'd even heard the Rough Rhinos—scary group but cool music—whistling the song the last time he saw them in town. Buff guys like them probably feared nothing. 

Koku had fallen asleep, but Moku was still humming and drumming. Toku found himself singing along to Moku's beat. He turned to Li, intending to ask if he was up for a nap, too.

Toku was excellent at reading people, but nobody needed to be _him_ to see the sudden crack in the boy’s unnervingly neutral mask and to witness the significantly more disconcerting overflow of emotions on his face.

And however hard he tried, he could neither comprehend what he’d done to shatter it nor conceive how he’d return it to how it was.

* * *

_Blue Spirit, Blue Spirit_

_Where, oh, where next will he visit?_

_Here, oh, here he comes and takes_

_As Agni rests, and Tui wakes_

_Bloody fangs, bloody dao_

_Is it he behind me now?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We regret to inform you that, due to unfortunate circumstances, Zuko will not be joining the Singing Nomads.
> 
>  **Fun facts:**  
>  \- The Blue Spirit rhyme (Fire Nation ver) is based on _Kagome Kagome_ , a Japanese nursery rhyme/children’s game with [cryptic lyrics](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kagome_Kagome) (my lyrics don’t match the melody though). [Here’s a version ft. percussion](https://open.spotify.com/track/2oFguMQQ5SgL4FVSYk9tNU?si=NQlT3YffSd6VkKm11LUisQ) so you can imagine Moku's drumming (with _Toryanse_ , another eerie song, mixed in).  
> \- Kuretake and Jinhao are both IRL brands of writing implements.  
> \- Where I’m from, there was a folk belief that spirits could harm you if they heard your real name, so people of old used ugly nicknames to confuse them. In the Kyoshi books, it seemed like you have to hand over your name yourself to give them power over you.  
> \- The three ways to spell Zuko’s name mentioned here are based on 1) how Ursa wrote it in _The Search_ , 2) the title card in _Tales of Ba Sing Se_ , and 3) Zuko’s wanted poster.  
> \- Sign language isn’t universal (they even have dialects like verbal language). Here’s a fun video [comparing JSL, ASL, and FSL](https://youtu.be/5kqhrLAz2n8) and another one about about [Japanese children learning to sign](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_GZno2aLvs). Tactile sign language is used to communicate with deaf and blind people (but Toph can’t use this because Lao will be scAnDaliZed). The sign language Zuko used here isn't for the public (*wink* *wink*)  
> 


	5. Sailor's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth will not sink with the prince’s ship.  
> After a stressful day, Jee comforts himself with alcohol, treason, and a couple of listeners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: minor depiction of violence, Jee’s incessant cussing and excessive drinking (he’s not an alcoholic but he’s super stressed)**

Jee was not having a good time.

Seriously. Oma’s cave bastards just wouldn’t leave him alone even after he’d gotten his blazing ass kicked out of the Navy.

After a long day doing ship repairs and offloading a muckton of cargo, he and his crewmates had barely started their much-deserved drinking party when a group of grimy, pit-wanking soldiers approached them to demand spirits-damned “contributions.”

Jee was not having a good time.

Fortunately, the best Fire Nation bar with the best _shouchuu_ was in town. He excused himself from his crewmates and their piss water to find The Smokin’ Cauldron.

Because Jee was not having a good time, and he was determined to fix that.

“Hey, sootface!” he called out in greeting and hauled himself on a high stool next to a customer in a sedge hat. Ignoring the stranger’s startled gawking—because _none of his flaming business_ —he ordered food and, of course, his life-saving alcohol from the barkeep.

“Quite late to be out drinking, Jee. What is it this time?” the barkeep asked as he served tea and a plate of extra-spicy fried noodles to the stranger beside him. Instead of taking their hat off as was proper in front of a meal, the stranger pulled their hat lower. _Sketchy._ A war veteran’s instincts alerted Jee to the sword slung across their back. _Real sketchy._

Seeing the barkeep’s nonchalance, however, Jee decided he didn’t need to care either. The Smokin’ Cauldron didn’t see them often, but it had its fair share of suspicious customers, after all.

After fuelling himself with a plate of deep-fried sharksquid rings, Jee was more than ready to spill his guts on the poor barkeep, “We got hassled for ‘contributions’ by mothertunnelers. _Again_. Oh, for the love of Tui and La, isn’t this a neutral port?”

“Yeah, means you get the shit from everywhere,” the barkeep half-joked.

“We have documentation, of course, but I won’t put it past them to accuse us of either piracy or espionage if we don’t comply. Especially because we’re a mixed crew.” The sailor stuffed the last piece of sharksquid ring into his mouth with a grudge it didn’t deserve. “Spirits beyond! Let this war end already.”

Jee downed his cup, which the barkeep swiftly refilled without him prompting. The man knew him enough to have confidence in his alcohol tolerance and rarely held him back whenever he was there to drink himself dead. Jee would have felt swindled if not for the high quality _shouchuu_. “So, anything new?”

“Just your luck, mate. The Blue Spirit’s the next town over,” the barkeep replied, earning him a lengthy groan from the sailor. “He’s already spooked several Fire Nation army camps and traders, plus a caravan on its way to deliver relief to a starving colony. Poor folks had to relocate.”

“ _By Agni,_ ” Jee spat louder than he intended, his irritation emphasized by a hand slamming on the counter. “It’s not red or green or blue. Scumbags are all over the Four Nations!”

The room quieted as people turned to look. The stranger next to him seemed terrified by his outburst. He couldn’t care less. He wanted to grab someone, to shake them for answers on why life was such a pain in the neck, and to demand them to _fucking fix it_.

Of course, nobody could; even the Avatar gave up on their sorry asses. So, instead, he opted for the readily available solution in front of him.

“Sorry, my friend’s a bit drunk,” he heard the barkeep say to the stranger. He sounded oddly concerned. Jee snorted. He wasn’t drunk, _yet_. “You don’t have to suffer through his wooly hogwash.”

Against common sense, his company stayed. Jee turned to the stranger and absently noted how small they looked.

_Child? Could have been the same age as—_

And against common sense, Jee made a decision.

“You seem like a good listener,” he said to the stranger, sipping his _shouchuu_ and not really caring if he was right or wrong. He gave the barkeep a vague hand signal, and the barkeep, not catching his meaning, refilled the stranger’s teacup. He’d meant _liquor_ for the poor chap, not _tea_ , but he seemed more offended than the stranger was. _Sure. Whatever._

“Let me tell you a story.”

* * *

Jee gazed at the sea, the water a sparkling orange in the Fire Islands’ embrace. On the horizon, the statue of Fire Lord Azulon spread its arms as Agni’s setting light warmed its back.

When Jee was conscripted, he chose the Navy over the Army thinking that it was the lesser of two evils. Sailors got off easier than those in the ground forces, he supposed, because they weren’t constantly battling dirt-eaters for territory. The Earth Kingdom Navy was a joke, the Water Tribes were waiting out the war in their icy huts, and the only real threats were pirates who knew better than to engage a Fire Nation battleship.

He was wrong. It was a pain in the ass, just of a different kind. To sail was to encroach on La’s domain, to subject themselves to the Ocean Spirit’s whims.

“Heathen deities” they might be, but many Fire Nation sailors accorded an appropriate level of respect to the Ocean and the Moon. Nobody would openly acknowledge it, but many Fire Nation sailors thought of their ships as mother-protectors that fulfilled the same role as Tui, as blasphemous as it sounded, in counterbalancing La’s destructive moodiness.

Many, but not all. Like Admiral Chan’s little elbow leech.

They were the best navy in the Four Nations not only because everyone else was a joke, but also because of their rigorous training that sometimes verged on _insane._ Like Admiral Chan's last battle simulation demanding them to maneuver in _complete_ darkness during _a storm_.

They were used to ridiculous orders. Ignoring the persistent invitation of their dead ancestors, they were even doing _fine_ until the smogbrained elbow leech told him to change course and to ignore his perfectly _valid_ assessment.

 _Sure thing, Commander Kato! Let me just_ ram _my beautiful ship into that lovely cruiser._

He didn’t. They could dress them up as “heroic sacrifices” all they want, but he hadn’t forgotten about the other exercises gone awry and the dead comrades they couldn’t retrieve from the resulting shipwrecks.

So, because he wasn’t dead, he had to fight Kato in an Agni Kai.

Jee mussed up his shorn hair at the memory.

A Fire National’s topknot was a symbol of honor as important to them as their life. This was true for commoners and nobility alike, but the latter made a much bigger deal out of it than the former. In the most extreme case, to cut off a royal _’_ s topknot was akin to an assassination attempt and was a crime worthy of the death penalty regardless of the actual harm done.

It made sense, then, that Kato, a nobleman, would want to make a show out of this incident and demand that he cut off his topknot as a sign of his shame.

Jee did not regret his actions in the slightest. Regardless of what their sleazy, La-damned commander and his thrice-blasted cronies said, he believed his honor never left him even after his topknot parted with his head.

Still, it was a mystery why he was here at First Lord’s Harbor of all places. He didn’t know anyone high enough—nobody who hadn’t retired or deserted, yet—that would be willing to pull some strings to get him out of his mess. He wasn’t even done serving his suspension, but here he was at Capital City, about to go on a high-profile fieldtrip.

“Fancy seeing you here, Captain Jee! Back so soon from your vacation?”

 _Agni help me. Of all spirits-forsaken people,_ why _is this slimy fuckwad_ here _?_

Jee schooled his face into a neutral expression before turning to the speaker. “Captain Zhao! What a surprise indeed.”

Jee was demoted to lieutenant after his Agni Kai, and by the shit-eating grin on Zhao’s face he could tell that the gossip mongering bastard knew it.

But for Agni-knows-what reason Jee was summoned from his suspension to captain a ship. Considering who he’d pissed off, Jee was sure he’d be scraping rust off one of those decades-old coal buckets, a single storm away from the scrapyard just like his career. The Crown Prince’s royal sloop was certainly a strange “demotion.”

Zhao, like a stinking albatross vulture, was obviously scavenging for gossip. Jee might as well get something in return for his trouble. “Got any souvenirs from up there? Best I could wring out of these yappy seadogs is the Fire Lord’s Agni Kai a few days back.”

There was a twinkle in Zhao’s eyes. “Oh, yes. I was fortunate to witness such a…historic moment.”

“Ah, to have such privilege.” Really, not even Wan Shi Tong’s infinite library could contain the coalhead’s massive ego. Jee idly wondered how much backbending a front-row seat was worth.

“What happened was quite hilarious, Jee,” Zhao chuckled at the memory. Then, in mock sympathy, “The Crown Prince refused to fight and _begged_ on his knees, snivelling like a kicked pup. How can the heir of the most powerful ruler act so cowardly?”

Jee as a soldier pledged his loyalty to the Fire Nation and its ruler, but he held little interest in the Royal Family’s domestic life—no, that was Zhao’s hobby. He knew next to nothing about Prince Zuko except for the fact that he was fourth in line until several losses propelled him to the rank of Crown Prince. Now that he would be in charge of his journey, however, he had reason to be curious.

“Huh. Dad’s pissed off, so now he’s sending him out on some pleasure trip to get him out of his royal hair?”

There. The albatross-vulture found its meal. “Prince Zuko is leaving?”

Jee waved a carefree hand at the royal sloop some distance away. “Cancelled my vacation for that.”

Zhao’s brows furrowed. “Really? When?”

“At sunset. Off to Yu Dao.”

“So soon. I wonder,” Zhao muttered to himself as he stroked his chin, eyes far-off and narrowed in thought. The moment unsettled Jee and only later would he realize why.

* * *

The main bell was tolling, calling all hands on deck.

Ignoring the sounds of thumping boots behind him, Jee craned his neck to marvel at the gold-rimmed spires of the superstructure towering over the weather deck. He’d seen the ship from afar, a long time ago, but this was the first time he’d ever boarded her. Having served during the Siege of Ba Sing Se, he’d sailed with the fleet led by the same royal sloop, which previously belonged to the late Prince Lu Ten. 

The _Zhuque—_ The Vermillion Bird—as she was called, had sailed only one round-trip between the Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom in her lifetime: before and after the Siege. The royal sloop had been dry-docked since. Some superstitious sailors believed she was haunted by the late prince—a notion that was, in his humble opinion, _a load of hippo cow dung._

Jee scoffed at those ashbrained idiots; he’d been on ships where people had _actually_ died, and none of them were haunted. Besides, Prince Lu Ten died on dry land. Why would he haunt La’s ever-loving waters? Nevertheless, perhaps to distance her from these rumors, the royal sloop was renamed the _Jingwei_ just before she was passed down to the new Crown Prince.

The _Jingwei—_ another mythical bird, one that resolved to fill the sea with sticks and pebbles and symbolized determination against insurmountable odds. One born out of a _drowned child_. Jee thought it was a creepy choice for a ship’s name, creepier than the rumors of the late prince’s hauntings, but he was not going to question the Fire Lord’s naming sense.

The ship was slightly smaller than the standard cruiser but was built from the same, if not higher, quality of metal in order to withstand strong impact. The three smokestacks abaft the superstructure meant that the royal sloop was made for speed. However, she lacked the heavy artillery of a battleship and was therefore _not_ for combat. She obviously needed escorts that, to Jee’s bafflement, were _not_ going to be provided by the Navy on departure.

“No ship is available at the moment, but we’ll get one or two to follow you ASAP. Just pick the safest, fastest route in the meantime, and send regular reports via hawkmail,” they said. _As if_ he had any other choice.

_. . . max speed, favorable weather, probably under a week. . ._

His second in command—a non-bending lieutenant he’d met on the docks earlier—saluted him, handed him a thin stack of service records, and informed him that everyone save for the Imperial Firebenders guarding the Crown Prince was assembled on the weather deck.

Jee filed his mental calculations for later. He’d deal with the charts after this assembly, once he was on the bridge with the helmsman.

Turning to face amidship, he saw the lot he was dealt and had to resist the urge to scream.

_Tui fucking La, what kind of line-up is this?_

Before him stood the bare minimum number of crewmembers a ship of the _Jingwei_ ’s class would need. Maybe _less._ They even skimped on Imperial Firebenders—there were only three instead of the _thirty_ a standard royal procession required. As things were, he’d probably have to assign them deck or engine watchkeeping duty to keep the ship afloat, protocol be damned.

Save for a few, like the helmsman he recognized from Admiral Chan's training exercise, his crew looked as sloppy as Earth Kingdom jook. The armorer’s own armor wasn’t even strapped properly. _Agni forbid he get himself stabbed._

He eyed the slovenly crewmembers, reviewed their service records, but found nothing odd. This was perhaps an oddity itself, but he would only realize this later in hindsight.

The Fire Lord had ordered them to leave immediately with the Crown Prince and to stay with him in Yu Dao until they were called back to the capital. Flipping through the crew’s files and thinking of his own service record, Jee shook his head and laughed internally at the thought of their informal banishment. Being sent to the colonies was either reward or punishment. If the Agni Kai was any clue, then this case was the latter.

He was only given a few hours to make sure the _Jingwei_ was seaworthy. He had so, _so_ much to do.

* * *

Jee was busy running around and picking up everyone’s slack when Prince Zuko boarded the ship. As soon as the prince was onboard, the port authorities practically shooed them away and deprived him of the chance to make a proper introduction.

Once they were on course, he left the bridge to the next officer of the watch and headed to the royal accommodation where the prince was staying.

He really didn’t want another Agni Kai with a pissed off commanding officer.

An Imperial Firebender guarded the door. After the Navy rejected his last-minute request for additional personnel, he had no choice but to convince the Imperial Firebenders to join the watch rotation on top of their actual duties. At the moment, the threat of sinking was larger than of assassination.

He nodded at the Imperial Firebender, then knocked. “Your Highness, pardon my intrusion. This is your captain, Jee, reporting.”

Several beats passed and Jee realized too late that he’d forgotten his helmet. He mentally slapped himself for his mounting failure at first impressions, but the baritone voice telling him to enter burned his escape plans to a crisp.

_Oh, he’s older than I thought._

Opening the heavy metal door, however, revealed a middle-aged man hunched over a small unconscious figure on a too-large bed. Jee had to steady himself.

“What in blue blazes…”

Prince Zuko was a _child._

“He’s been fighting off the infection since before we sailed.” The man briefly looked up from his work on the prince to acknowledge his presence. “Healer Hyung, by the way.”

“Will he make it?” Because he might as well be delivering an Agni-damned corpse to Yu Dao. The Fire Lord’s flame had been ruthless to the kid’s face. It was a laughably small mercy that the Fire Lord allowed the prince to keep the hair on his head instead of having it shaved off.

There was a surprising conviction in the healer’s response, “He _has_ to. I won’t let him go like this.”

They spent the next minutes in silence—the healer cleaning the infected wound, the sailor watching with unease.

Unable to take the oppressive air any longer, Jee dared voicing the one question that had been nagging at him since he saw the disfigured boy, “Would you know…why?”

Hyung froze, grip tightening on his scalpel. The healer’s eyes hardened and briefly strayed to his shorn hair.

“What brought you here, Captain?”

Trick question. Veiled threat.

_Look at this sabertooth moose lion._

Jee let out a humorless chuckle.

“Not following dumb orders from a dumb piece of shit.”

For a very long moment, they stared at each other. Jee felt like a tumor under scrutiny the whole time.

Finally, the healer broke his gaze. Jee held back a sigh of relief. A wise soldier never messed with their healers.

Just when he thought that that was the end of the conversation, he caught the healer’s soft response.

“He…spoke out of turn in a war meeting…”

“Wait,” Jee interrupted.

The Fire Lord’s war meetings were top secret affairs. What happened in the War Room stayed in the War Room. Those at the bottom of the pile like him only knew what the top brass told them.

“How do you know?”

A healer had _no business_ knowing highly confidential information like this.

“…I asked someone who was there,” Hyung struggled to say. Emotion was starting to leak out of his professional calm. “She told me the prince opposed a plan to bait the Earth Kingdom’s forces with a division of fresh recruits. T-to sacrifice them.”

Jee felt like he’d been dunked in polar waters.

_Of fucking course._

Those crusty Sozin nutjobs would willingly toss them into Oma and Shu’s Agni-forsaken love den _to die_. In this blasted war, caring about your comrades would get you demoted. It would get you burned. It would get you _killed._

The healer should be about as old as him, Jee guessed, but he appeared to have aged a decade between their first meeting and this moment.

After a steadying breath, the healer continued, “He was supposed to duel the general who suggested it. But when he turned…”

Jee, in his wilful ignorance, had assumed that the Agni Kai between the Fire Lord and the Crown Prince was merely another political dispute between two grown men with their individual honors at stake. Suddenly, the weight of the duel—a _boy_ against his _own father,_ for the sake of _their people_ —hit Jee like a kick in the guts. A long string of curses left the sailor’s mouth, and he'd probably go on for weeks if he hadn’t had the mind to stop himself.

Hyung finished dressing the wound, ripped his mask off, and then dumped himself like a sack of rice onto a stool by the prince’s bedside.

“Spirits, the medic aboard is greener than a cabbage. The Fire Lord clearly wants his son _dead_ , Captain Jee,” Hyung did not spit at the word _Fire Lord,_ but he might as well have. He finally caved to the mounting stress, “I wasn’t even supposed to be here _at all_ , and if-if I weren’t here, this child—I’m doing my best, Captain, but this is all too much for him. Why did _that bastard_ have to—AGNI…!”

Hyung caught his head in his hands, long muffled groan escaping his lips. Jee moved to comfort him, but a soft pleading stilled the two men.

“I’m sorry, Father, please…”

The Fire Lord was the Father of the Fire Nation. If he could do this to his own flesh and blood, then Agni have mercy on the rest of them.

* * *

The prince overcame the fever. He was well enough to stay awake and move around with some assistance, but he kept to himself in his quarters for the most part of his stay. He was silent when he read the Fire Lord’s decree, although his face screamed the emotions he could't put into words.

Ever since he regained consciousness, the prince rarely talked, and whenever he did he only spoke to Hyung in whispers. Once, instead of addressing Jee directly, he muttered to the healer who then relayed the prince’s answer to him. Jee was confused. Hyung was even _more_ concerned than he already was before Prince Zuko woke up and was stuck to the boy’s side wherever he went as if he was a personal attendant, not a healer.

The royal accommodation was on the floor between the bridge and the officers’ accommodation, so Jee found himself checking on the pair every now and then. Prince Zuko never spoke to him, content with nods and stares. Hyung said the prince appreciated the company but warned him against using foul language in the kid’s presence. _Big mother turtleduck._

The prince gave him sugar candy one time, though, so maybe the healer wasn’t lying about the appreciation thing.

“He saw how badly injured his son was, but he didn’t even order me to go with him to make sure his child made it through the trip,” Hyung told him while the prince slept.

“You’re here, though. He changed his mind?” Jee asked, furrowing his brows.

“He didn’t. The princess banished me.”

At his dumbfounded look, the healer shrugged, “That was very affectionate of her, I guess.”

 _What in Sozin’s hot balls is this family’s problem?_ Aside from the obvious world domination hawkshit, of course.

“Man, these royals are… _royally_ messed up.”

Hyung snorted, the first time Jee had ever seen him loosen up. “Stick to your profanities. You’re terrible at puns.”

Jee left these out of his regular reports.

* * *

He was so tired that the light rolling of the ship was starting to feel like a lullaby, but anxiety was keeping Jee from dreamland. There was a storm brewing on their initial path according to the most recent weather hawk, but the notice arrived later than it should, as weather bulletins sometimes did. The possibility of life-threatening delays like this left them to their own devices, but it was a mistake to count on their mudminded lookout’s surveillance skills. He shouldn’t have to remind the idiot to be vigilant of La’s ever-changing mood, especially in this light fog, but apparently he _had_ to.

Good thing he and the lieutenant had noticed the signs early on; otherwise, they’d be sleeping on La’s seabed tonight. The closest friendly port was on the storm’s path, so their safest bet was on the open seas. They spent the day storm-proofing everything, plotting an alternative course, and adjusting the ship’s speed to avoid the storm.

But something he couldn’t quite place kept nagging at him—something he couldn’t shake off ever since they’d left port—and he’d been poring over maps and ship logs in his quarters for hours hoping for some sort of epiphany. He massaged his temples trying to recall if he’d forgotten anything, even though he was sure he hadn’t.

He sure as Agni hadn’t forgotten their repeated requests for armed escorts, but it seemed like their Sozin-damned HQ had.

The sudden flaring of his lamp caught his attention. It wasn’t him, so someone else was holding the flame.

If it was important, someone would’ve come knocking on his door to inform him.

Sometimes, life at sea got boring and sailors who had nothing else to do used the military Flash Code for idle chatter. They’d knock vulgar words on the metal walls, letting their stupidity echo throughout the ship for everyone to hear. Firebenders played with candles. These were violations of safety protocols and were punishable offenses, but that didn’t stop delinquents from doing it anyway.

Jee might not look the part, but he didn’t rise to (and ironically, fall from) officership without a good head on his shoulders. He really hoped he was mistaken in his initial assessment of his crew’s competence (or lack of it). But _if_ he was right, as this flaring candle should tell him soon enough, then he needed to remind them about the importance of following protocols first thing tomorrow morning.

He had to give it to them, though. Singling out _his_ lamp among the many was a noteworthy display of firebending skill. One of those Imperial Firebenders, maybe?

He watched. The flashing continued. A bit more frantic than standard, but it was easy for him to “read” the quick succession of rising and falling flame thanks to years of practice.

“LOOK-OUT AND AR-MOR-ER—”

All his previous thoughts went out the porthole.

“—FAKE S-O-S TWO HOS-TILE SHIP—”

_AGNITUILA!_

The flame flickered and died.

Jee sprang to his feet and bolted out of the door. Almost simultaneously, the main bell rang to signal an attack, but the ringing stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

“CAPTAIN!” the helmsman and the lieutenant called out at the same time when he reached the bridge. From the window, he could see two smaller wooden ships flying Earth Kingdom colors and catching up to them on both sides. The _Jingwei_ listed aport, causing the three to stumble, as grappling hooks from one of the ships latched onto the bulwarks.

_Where in Ozai’s ass are those Agni-forsaken escorts when you need them?_

The _Jingwei_ ’s very few firebenders met the enemies boarding from the portside with blasts of fire. The ship righted herself when the second wooden ship pulled on her starboard.

“ _Fuck_ , this is like Chan’s exercise last winter,” the helmsman said.

“You remember how, then?” Jee asked.

“Tui and La. Wouldn’t forget that shit, sir.”

Jee nodded, grabbed the speaking tube, and barked orders at the engine room as the helmsman maneuvered the ship. On the weather deck, firebenders burned the ropes and managed to detach the wooden ship from the portside. The _Jingwei_ listed to starboard as the ropes snapped.

“Sir!” the lieutenant called. Jee turned and saw him supporting a limp Imperial Firebender with a _jian_ still attached to his back. “They’re after the Prince!”

_La fucking damn it—_

His second was a non-bender. One of the two Imperial Firebenders remaining was on the weather deck and the other was in the engine room.

“Lieutenant, you have the ship,” Jee said as he rushed past the pair.

The way to the royal accommodation was littered with the enemy’s charred corpses, likely the work of the Imperial Firebender on the bridge. Consistent with their flag, many wore Earth Kingdom greens, but some in Water Tribe blues were mixed in.

_So they’re working together now?_

But something was off. He’d seen, fought, and studied enough muckbenders to know how they looked—build, uniform, weapons—but these men were like a strange mishmash and mockery of the real—

—those were not Earth Kingdom soldiers. He'd seen these louts enough to know what they were. _They’re Agni-damned pirates._

Jee arrived at the prince’s quarters only to find it empty. He ran up the porthole and peered at the weather deck just in time to see the armorer dragging Hyung out into the open.

Running faster than he’d ever done in his life, he reached the weather deck and came face-to-face with the chaos. Overhead, a hawk carrying their distress message managed to evade a swooping iguana parrot. The rest of the hawks with identical messages fell lifeless on the deck, all shot down by an archer on one of the enemy ships.

The waves were growing larger. The rain was picking up. They must be getting off-course. The ship tilted dangerously as the bow veered away from the oncoming waves. He stumbled upon the dead armorer who had a scalpel sticking out of his eye. Next to him, Hyung’s lifeless body lay on a pool of blood. Frantically, he searched for the prince all the while trying to ignore the dead hawks and dead people scattered about.

_Agni, where is he?_

He found Prince Zuko afore, caught between two pirates. Jee broke into a sprint and sent a fireball at his captors. With the pirates distracted, he snatched the prince away from their clutches and pulled him away from their reach.

“Sir, are you hurt?” he asked the trembling prince. Not getting a response, he gave him a quick onceover.

The prince’s uncovered eye was blown wide in horror. Jee himself was horrified upon realizing what the pirates had done.

_Agni above. . ._

They’d shorn _the Fire Prince_.

A blur of green swooped down and landed on one of the pirates who’d held Prince Zuko. The leader, most likely.

Laughing, the pirate with the iguana parrot twirled the phoenix tail he’d chopped off from the prince in a blatant display of disrespect, “Looking for your honor, little prince?”

Jee glared.

“I will not let you harm His Highness!”

Behind their leader, the fake lookout toyed with the main bell, severed from its mount as proof of the ship’s capture. Cackling loudly as he tossed their trophy from one hand to the other, he jeered, “Don’t bother, soldier boy! The job order came from Your Fiery Lordship himself. Off with that little fiery spawn and his entourage, he said!”

“The Fire Lord would never— ” Would never what? Mutilate his son? Ship him off feverish from infection and barely clinging to life? Offer him up to pirates? Even a blind badgermole could see that the sick son of a bitch definitely would and _certainly did_.

A wave slammed against the portside sending Jee and the prince crashing against the bulwarks.

Several more pirates appeared as more of his crew fell. In the distance, he could hear the engine room’s bell yelling an emergency. The ship’s list worsened as the waves rose higher.

The prince trembled against his side. Jee gripped him closer.

“Sorry, kid.” The pirate leader grinned at the prince. “Papa doesn’t love you.”

* * *

` _The Crown Prince disrespected the Fire Lord (long may He reign), and shamed himself by forfeiting an Agni Kai. Ever just and merciful, the Fire Lord forgave His loyal son and elected to send him to the colonies where he would learn respect and governance._ `

` _Alas, the Crown Prince never reached his destination. On the way to Yu Dao, the dishonorable Earth Kingdom and its allied Water Savages slaughtered the poor young prince and his crew, dooming their ship to the heathen deity La. Thus, for this great act of barbarism and provocation toward the Children of Agni, the Earth Kingdom and the Water Savages must suffer the Fire Nation’s wrath a millionfold._ `

` _By decree of Fire Lord Ozai, the Will of Agni_ `

* * *

“Ozai, you lying, ash-spitting, shitbending bastard—!”

Rage, disbelief, and sorrow warred on Jee’s face as he read the declaration for the thousandth time, and only caution against hostile elements prevented him from throwing fireballs and setting the bulletin board aflame.

He wanted some _baijiu_ to knock him out right there and then. Maybe he’d wake up to a crewmember banging on the metal door of his quarters _._ Maybe he’d wake up with a stiff neck after falling asleep on the charts. Maybe he’d wake up on the deck after a night of mahjong and drinking with the crew.

But those were a lonely sailor’s wishful thinking.

Like a smothered campfire, the fury in him died only to be replaced by emptiness. As much as he hated his life as a soldier steering ships and burning countries for a genocidal monster, it was the only one he knew. He was alive, but he had no life to return to. As a soldier, he’d imagined death in the line of duty, but never in this way.

**My life I give to my country.**

**With my hands I fight for Fire Lord Ozai and our forefathers before him.**

It should be the highest honor to die for the Fire Lord. The prince was dead ( _I failed you_ ), Hyung was dead ( _I failed you_ ), the entire crew of the _Jingwei_ was dead ( _I failed you_ ), he was probably declared dead ( _I failed_ ), and more of his people would be dead ( _we failed_ ) because their “ever just and merciful” leader said so. The Fire Lord was always right, right?

_Ostrich horseshit._

His growling stomach reminded him of his body’s not-dead problem. Living required coin, and coin he did not have. Sighing, he stood and dusted himself. Jee of Shuhon Island, loyal soldier of the Fire Nation, and Ozai’s little polar bear bitch was dead. Maybe that was a good thing.

* * *

“Hey, mate. Wake up.”

He ran a hand down his face in a futile attempt to wipe away his drowsiness. The barkeep shot him a pitying look before handing him a cup of funny-smelling, shit-tasting tea for hangovers. Feeling for the sun with some difficulty thanks to a night of drinking, he figured it was a little after dawn. The bar was closed and empty save for the two of them.

“You talked that poor kid’s head off the whole night,” the barkeep said with a laugh. “Good listener, indeed. Left only after you knocked yourself out.”

“Kid? Oh, right.” So he was spouting child abuse and murder at another child. Great job.

Jee eyed the tea, sipped, grimaced, and repeated these actions in no particular order. As his mind cleared, it registered the aroma of food and the warmth of the stove teasing his inner fire. Minutes later, the barkeep sat opposite him with two bowls of jook and a spice shaker. Jee thanked him with a nod that made his head throb.

“Was that true?” the barkeep asked in a hushed voice, as if afraid someone would jump out of the shadows. Jee furrowed his eyebrows, spoon halting partway to his mouth.

“What you told the kid last night, smogbrain. That spice about the Fire Lord.”

Last night’s one-sided conversation gradually returned to him. His story contradicted the official reports—it discredited the Fire Nation’s justification for razing the Earth Kingdom. _Treasonous_. It dawned on him that he was one man against the Fire Lord’s propaganda machinery.

**With my mind I seek ways to better my country.**

He spooned a couple of mouthfuls, unbothered by his friend’s expectant look. In the end, he couldn’t defend the prince’s life. He decided he owed it to him to defend his honor. Fight fire with fire. Like the _Jingwei_ throwing sticks and pebbles in hopes of one day filling the sea.

Maybe he should chat with that dour ex-admiral, wherever in Koh’s damp lair he was. Sailors _did_ _love_ tales.

“Ozai’s ‘stellar’ parenting? Of course. He’s also a shitty employer. Remember my stint in the Navy? I’ll tell you.”

**_And with my feet may our March of Rebellion continue._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: so there’s a storm and then pirates and then the ship sank  
> Jee: NO LISTEN THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED *cussing and jargon*  
> Me and Zuko: We have no idea what you’re saying 
> 
> Jeong Jeong being “the first person ever to leave the army - and live” is, in my humble opinion, a load of hippo cow dung. Here he’s a high-profile case, but desertion isn’t as rare as it seems. Many soldiers “disappear” or “go overboard.” Not always for treason; sometimes they’d just had enough. 
> 
> [Sailors and swearing](https://www.britishtars.com/2017/12/swear-like-sailor.html) \- this is actually a Western sailor trope that I find amusing and fits the fic's theme so I just went with it haha  
> [Japanese Morse Code](https://www.rfcafe.com/references/qst/japanese-morse-telegraph-code-sep-1942-qst.htm) \- IRL basis of the Fire Nation Flash Code  
> Ship anatomy and nautical terms ([principal parts](http://captaindamley.net/e-modules/general-ship-knowledge/principal-parts-of-ship/#site-header) / [naval vessels](https://www.history.navy.mil/research/library/online-reading-room/title-list-alphabetically/s/ship-shapes-anatomy-and-types-of-naval-vessels.html))  
> [Book on Imperial Japanese naval strategies](https://books.google.com.ph/books/about/Kaigun.html?id=M-5feKonuNkC&redir_esc=y) \- see p. 210-211 for the simulation exercises referenced here  
> [Story of the Jingwei](https://archive.org/details/AChineseBestiary/page/n153/mode/2up?q=jingwei) \- it's actually a girl  
> 


	6. Candle Flame and Hearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a strange night, an old scribe offers tea and proverbs to the Blue Spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: light cussing; mentions of child death; Zuko’s issues™ including survivor guilt, self-blame, and depressive thoughts**
> 
> Welcome back to sad boi Zuko’s POV. Recall that in Ch4 he was detached until the latter part, so now his feelings are going to hit him full force. He has increasingly negative thoughts, so please mind the tags and be forewarned that he’s going to have a breakdown. If you wish to skip his worst thoughts, you can click the nifty《 skip 》anchor links. They just…they just wrote themselves, and I didn’t take them out like I did in Ch2.
> 
> This is the last part of _Away, Without a Word_ and the angstiest this story is going to get (I think). After this, he can finally take it easy and have fun.

This moment, if walking earthquakes were to be believed, was the perfect time to say, “By Kyoshi’s stinking boot!”

Or, if he remembered the ghost captain’s words correctly, “For the love of Tui and La!”

Or, in much simpler terms, “Shit!”

He could feel the disappointment of his ancestors, from the First Fire Lord to Azulon, bear down on him as he—a pitiful, harried, snow-covered mess of a prince—mentally cursed the spirits and frantically ran around looking for shelter from the first snowfall. But who “fucking” cares?

Maybe Mother did, if she was alive somewhere. Maybe. Maybe not.

He gritted his teeth and locked those colorful words inside his head where only he and his imaginary sister and uncle could hear him scream in frustration.

Finally finding a refuge, he peered into the darkness and briefly left Peanut Brittle outside to inspect the rock shelter’s interior. Thank Oma and Shu for their and their earthbending children’s penchant for tunneling mountains. He’d learned from his wandering that the Earth Kingdom was a giant playground earthbenders altered to suit their needs. Created and destroyed. Claimed and abandoned. Was this why they're called “mothertunnelers”? He honestly didn’t know what that meant, but he couldn’t ask the ghost captain anymore.

Hand on his dao’s hilt, he entered the hollow space. Human-made, he guessed, judging by the unnatural smoothness of its bone-dry walls.

It should do.

Once he’d deemed it safe from foul-mouthed badgermole kids, he led Peanut Brittle inside and freed her of her load, making sure to put his bag out of her reach.

Arms crossed and back straight, he stared down at the ostrich horse sitting nonchalantly on the floor. 

“Listen,” Zuko said in a voice that sounded foreign to his own ears after long disuse, yet oddly unhindered by the…anxiety or _whatever it was_ that was keeping him from speaking to _people_. The word tasted like day-old meat on his tongue.

Silently, he lamented how he’d fallen so low that he couldn’t be comfortable enough to talk to anybody other than this stupid ostrich horse and the occasional badgerfrog. He winced at his deteriorating social skills, which were already _bad_ before _everything_ that happened.

“That was fuc—that wasn’t very nice of you.” Mother should be proud of him for his restraint.

Peanut Brittle didn’t deign to respond because she was a rude troublemaker and an _ostrich horse_.

Zuko sighed. “You’re not—you’re not supposed to just eat my stuff, okay?”

The ostrich horse snorted and preened.

“Uggh! You’re so…” _selfish and greedy and_ _troublesome why do you always go through my stuff you stupid—_

He continued the rant in his head, completely unaware that his words were dying before they could leave his throat. When his mind caught up with what was going on, Zuko sighed in resignation and plopped down on the hard, gritty floor with his head in his hands. He wasn’t going to get through to the unrepentant animal anyway.

_‘Good job, Zuzu. Winter’s barely started, and you’ve already failed.’_

_Shut up._

_‘But you want me here, don’t you?’_

Azula was in his head again, speaking lies like she always did in reality. But this Azula was merely an imitation conjured by his lonely imagination—Zuko reminded himself—which meant that this was _him_ talking to himself in his sister's voice. "Her" words weren’t lies because he was a bad liar and a poor impersonator.

Somehow, though, this fake-Azula managed to be meaner than real-Azula was. Maybe as a person he, the impersonator, was actually worse than the original.

He refused to entertain such thoughts any further.

The wind blew, and he shivered in his damp clothes. With a groan, he stood up to change into something dry. If he kept himself busy, he wouldn’t have to listen to fake-Azula.

He rummaged through his bag and pulled out the winter wear Healer Seok had helpfully packed for him before he saved them the trouble of keeping a disgraced failure around.

Firebenders ran hotter than other people, but they couldn't survive the cold for long without ample heating and covering. Winter, when Agni was away for longer than usual, dampened their spirits and made their bodies lethargic. Children of Fire born during the winter months struggled to survive. If they did, they were believed to be weaker than those born in other seasons. Short days and overcast skies prevented them from receiving Agni’s full bounties.

Zuko was born in winter, in the dead of the night.

He wasn’t sure how cold Earth Kingdom winters were. Based on the autumn chill he’d been through, he expected it to be much colder than Fire Nation winters. He remembered one of his tutors telling him that freezing was one of the worst ways a firebender could die, up there next to drowning.

He’d already tried drowning. Now he could try freezing. Maybe this time—

Right. His clothes were warm enough for now, but he needed a campfire for Peanut Brittle and himself should the weather turn for the worse.

Could he still consider himself a firebender if he couldn’t firebend? He hadn’t meditated, the bare minimum of firebending, in a very long time. His inner fire was as small and unstable as a flickering candle flame, and he feared that touching it would snuff it out completely.

It was the last piece of himself that he could still cling to when everything else was slipping away from him.

Right. Again, the campfire. He needed a campfire.

The sky was gray, but the snow had stopped. He should take advantage of this lull to gather kindling and to forage for food.

He’d rather not do anything, really.

He turned to his bag and checked how much food his ostrich horse had left him. Not much, so he got up and left to do what must be done but not without giving Peanut Brittle the stink eye first.

The stupid ostrich horse preened.

* * *

If Master Kunyo saw him doing this, he'd probably weep. Most likely, the old master would lash his palms until they were raw and numb.

It was a very, _very_ stupid method unbecoming of a Fire Prince. He could stand an open flame and get it going if he stayed a good distance away, but it was starting one that was the problem.

Zuko stood as far away as possible from the pile of dry wood he’d splintered from damp logs. Drawing back his dao, he took a deep breath and swung his sword forward to strike the spark rock he’d positioned next to the kindling.

It didn’t catch the first time. It never did. So he had to keep striking the stupid spark rock with steel until it stopped being stupidly useless.

_‘This is stupid.’_

_Yes, very._

The flames sparked to life, and Zuko fell back in surprise. He blinked the shock away, sat up, and carefully pried the spark rock away from the pile using his sword.

There. Stupid campfire.

_Now what?_

He couldn’t remain in this hole forever. He needed to find something to do that didn’t involve stupid masks and swords. Should he find work? Would anyone hire a kid like him? Did he have any skills worth a coin or two?

He drew up his knees against his chest and turned away from the campfire to watch the snow outside. Fire was a company he’d rather not face at the moment.

* * *

**_Zuko’s Marketable Skills:_ **

**_~~Fireben~~ _ **

**_Swords_ **

**_Stealth_ **

**_~~Tsungi Horn~~ _ **

**_Reading_ **

**_Writing_ **

**_Tea making?_ **

* * *

He lay in the dark doing nothing and watching nothing. Next to him, beyond arm’s reach, lay the so-called Blue Spirit’s mask.

It was easier to put one step in front of another when he was still an unfeeling wind-up doll. When he never woke up like he was drowning. Utterly boring and pointless, but not lying-on-the-floor sad and pointless.

He thought that by some mysterious providence he had finally been granted the same control over emotions Azula always seemed to have. That he had finally stopped being a fool who could not rein back his stupid feelings—the kind of feelings that made him weak and always invited trouble with Father.

The Dark Water Spirit’s mask was his protection spell. A literal mask on top of his mask of blessed apathy. He could hack his way through enemy camps and unsuspecting caravans. He could steal state secrets and sabotage military operations. He could stand still and not bat an eye as a man executed another man in front of him.

But of course, he could never be so lucky. Masks could be broken. Spells could be broken. _He_ could be broken.

Because he was a _failure_ , and only _Suffering_ was patient enough to be his teacher. 

《 skip 》

What was…What was he even doing? Scaring people with stupid legends? Stealing their livelihood? Chasing them away from their homes? Causing trouble for everyone by virtue of existing?

Why was he so stubborn anyway?

_“That's who you are, Zuko. Someone who keeps fighting even though it's hard.”_

Stupid, _lying_ Mother.

Father was right after all. He should have just died in that shipwreck like Father wanted him to. His entire crew did not have to die for a useless failure like him.

Because he was good for _nothing_ other than dying and feeding people’s lies.

He used to think that his destiny was to rule, but here he was, in a cold Earth Kingdom cavern waiting for Agni-knows-what. Maybe for someone to put him out of his misery because even at _dying_ he was a _failure_.

Earthbenders would find him and bury him here. They would break his bones and grind them up until there was absolutely _nothing_ left. They would leave the grave unmarked for nobody to find because there was _nothing_ underneath.

Because Father did not deem him worthy of an honorable pyre.

Because Father sent him to the worst grave a Child of Agni could have, but La did not deem him worthy of a dishonorable end either.

If there was neither honor nor dishonor, then there was _nothing_ for him _._

Was _this_ his destiny?

This would be Uncle’s cue to spit proverbs about destiny or some other _hawkshit_.

But he had no need for stupid proverbs—he needed someone to tell him what _exactly_ he was supposed to do now. A straightforward answer, and none of those winding phrases that old people so dearly favored.

Because no matter what he did behind a spirit’s guise—no matter how much he rebelled against everything—

—in the end, he was just a _child_.

What was he even supposed to do against the most powerful man in the Fire Nation?

Nothing.

So there. Lying in the dark with nothing. Doing nothing. Watching nothing. Regretting everything.

He was _nothing_ feeling _everything_. 

* * *

` _Somewhere out there, someone is painting a picture scroll. The painter, having ran out of colorful pigment, settles for dull charcoal to draw his stupid, never-ending tale in grays._`

` _This painter is so incompetent, he always spills ink on his already abysmal work. It is much more profitable to stop and throw it away because it is a boring, stupid story. Unfortunately, the painter is as stupid as his story. And so, he keeps wasting and spilling ink on his stupid picture scroll._`

` _His story is so stupid, someone finally decides to set his picture scroll on fire and to dump its pieces into a lake so that nobody else can read his stupid, stupid story._`

` _But the painter is very stupid. He fishes out the picture scroll and continues his stupid story until he runs out of charcoal. Now, he is stuck with an unfinished picture scroll, a stupid story, and no flames to end it._`

Zuko chucked his slate against the wall. He had no chalk left to write stupid stories.

* * *

_‘You need to eat, Zuzu.’_

_Not hungry._

_‘Just steal again, dum-dum.’_

_. . . No._

_‘Why not? That’s all you’ve been doing anyway.’_

He wished he could deny that. Peanut Brittle watched him with lazy eyes, blissfully unaware of his dilemma.

_‘She wants to steal.’_

Zuko looked at the ostrich horse and wished she had the ability to speak for herself, to refute fake-Azula’s words. The animal simply blinked at him, then preened as if to spite him.

_I don’t want to do that anymore._

_‘Then die, idiot.’_

_Would you like that? Be an only child._

He didn’t dare imagine her answer.

* * *

Peanut Brittle slept all the time. She didn’t annoy him with her preening as much as she used to.

It was his fault that she was out here starving in the cold instead of living a life of food and comfort in a Fire Nation camp.

If she died, that would be his fault again.

Zuko pushed himself off the ground and picked up the Blue Spirit’s mask.

* * *

When did things start to go wrong?

War council?

If he hadn’t insisted on being there, then he wouldn’t have heard their plan.

If he hadn’t heard their plan, then he wouldn’t have spoken out of turn.

If he hadn’t spoken out of turn, then he wouldn’t have challenged Father to an Agni Kai.

If he hadn’t been so weak—no wait. That was the start.

If he hadn’t been so weak, then Father wouldn’t have said that he was lucky to be— _oh_.

If he hadn’t been born at all, then none of these would have happened.

* * *

In the dim room lit by a single lamp, a wiry old man sat imperiously.

Zuko was not a staunch believer in spirits like Uncle and Mother were, but after everything that happened he no longer doubted that one, they were real; and two, they truly hated him.

Perhaps becoming a fake spirit affronted them so greatly that they decided to sic dead people on him as punishment.

Mother told him to never, _ever_ mess with spirits.

First, they sent Captain Jee.

Next, they sent Grandfather.

_“Your punishment has scarcely begun!”_

《 skip 》

Suddenly, he was back in the throne room, the Fire Lord _staring_ at him with eyes so cold they threatened to smother his wildly flickering inner flame. His stomach turned at the memory and the floor beneath him wobbled like it did when the waves crashed against his ship.

_‘Grandfather wanted to kill you.’_

_Shut up._

_‘Father wanted to kill you.’_

_Shut up._

_‘They wanted you to die, but_ why _are you still_ here _?’_

_Shut up._

_‘Now Grandfather’s going to kill you.’_

_Shut up._

_Maybe if you just stayed dead—_

_SHUT UP!_

_‘Then stop pretending to be me and say these things yourself.’_

Her—

His—

Their silence was deafening.

Everything was dark-cold-empty—

_Merciful Agni—_

He could no longer feel his inner flame.

_—please—_

The shadows were after him, tendrils reaching, closing in . . .

_—just—_

_. . . engulfing_ him until he could no longer breathe.

_—just take me already._

The swords clattered loudly on the floor, but he heard nothing.

* * *

The old man was _not_ , in fact, his grandfather.

That explained why Zuko was _still here_ watching the old man as he brewed a pot of tea with meditative calm.

_‘Of course, he isn’t. Did earthbenders squish your brain, dum-dum?’_

_You said he was!_

_‘No, I didn’t.’_

Sure, in a world so populated, people completely unrelated would turn up with similar facial features. In fact, both the Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom militaries kept track of look-alikes—peasants who more often than not served as meat shields for the nobility.

(He looked a lot like his father, except for the scar, but he didn’t want to think about that now.)

But there was very little trace of Azulon. He should really check how much sleep he’d lost and how many meals he’d skipped to make such a mistake.

The room was much brighter than he remembered it to have been, and the illumination was enough to chase off the image of the late Fire Lord that his addled mind had overlaid with the old man’s face.

_Maybe it’s the beard and mustache…?_

Despite his well-worn robes of Fire Nation red, the old man carried himself with an air of nobility, his movements precise but graceful. His sharp features could pass him off as a Fire National at first glance, but upon closer inspection there was _something else_ that made his face softer and foreign. Zuko supposed he was of mixed heritage, but he had never seen an example as old as this man to be sure.

Zuko couldn’t remember when he passed out, or when he woke up, or when he settled down, or when his breathing evened out, or when the old man began his tedious tea ceremony. His thoughts before and after _whatever this was_ didn’t make sense, but then again he couldn’t remember the last time they did, so he surrendered his mind to the mesmerizing tilt and turn of the teapot like the idiot Azula always told him he was.

He spotted his _dao_ , now sheathed, resting behind the old-man-that-was-not-Grandfather. He couldn’t remember how that happened either.

The feral part of him born and raised in the Earth Kingdom screamed at him to get up, retrieve his weapon, and bolt out of there _now_. Another part of him that sounded suspiciously like Uncle urged him to enjoy a calming cup of tea with this nice old man.

_I don’t need—_

His pointless, imaginary argument with his uncle was stifled by the old man’s _very real_ voice.

“We each have our own share of troubles,” the old man said, pausing to sip his tea as if he was in the company of a pleasant guest and not a dangerous criminal-slash-fake-spirit. Zuko reflexively straightened his posture at the old man’s formal tone, his years of etiquette training kicking in. “I see the Blue Spirit is no exception.”

Zuko didn’t really know how to respond to that, so he took the offered tea to soothe his dry mouth and to perhaps buy some time—

—belatedly realizing, thanks to the sudden impact of clay on wood and the hot liquid seeping through his robes, that he was still wearing the Blue Spirit’s mask.

_Oh spirits, I hope he didn’t see that—_

The old man saw _that_ and choked on his tea.

“My apologies. I did not realize the Blue Spirit’s unique…circumstance. Forgive this old man for presuming.”

Zuko would rather choke on tea than live through this embarrassment, but he couldn’t even get it to his mouth because of his stupid, _stupid_ mask.

* * *

Old Scribe Yan had lived long enough to see the world shift with the changing seasons and the rising and falling of monarchs. He had consumed enough ink and paper documenting all sorts of things to learn of the strangest events ever to occur in his lifetime. He had drank enough tea and had played enough Pai Sho to hear of the most outlandish rumors across the Four Nations.

None of these prepared him for the _Blue Spirit_ , scourge of the Fire Nation and threat to public order, who in the dead of the night broke into his peaceful home and in the name of lawless justice proceeded to…crumple into a sobbing, trembling mess in front of him.

Not long ago, because of some hilarious administrative blunder, one of his friends asked him to help with the reproduction of the Blue Spirit’s wanted posters.

One of their local woodblock printers left their troubled area to find better business elsewhere. The other one claimed to be fully-booked, though he suspected they refused for fear of the so-called spirit's curse. 

Their office had to source their posters from a printer farther away, but the urgency and volume of the order left the government clerks with no choice but to pick up their own brushes to compensate for the delay. 

Unfortunately for them, the occupied territories were large, and there was only so much a bunch of government clerks could do on their own before their hands fell off in exhaustion.

Maybe they really were spirits-cursed. 

Times like this made them wonder if they were better off training earthbenders in stoneblock printing instead of sending them to rot in floating prison rigs.

Really, what a waste of human resources. Yu Dao had the right ideas. That warmonger Bujing should learn a thing or two. What a _blockhead_. 

_Hah! Good one, Yan._

Wait, no. 

Back to the problem at hand. 

The posters said that the Blue Spirit was _not_ a spirit, and that challenging him required a good number of people. Yan was not “a good number of people.”

Yet, to Yan’s bafflement, the so-called spirit—with his terrifying theater mask, black robes, and twin dao—was not murdering him but was instead whispering apologies to him ( _his grandfather?_ ) in-between gasps and sobs. The lanterns flared and flickered in response, and Yan had to seize control of the flames lest they burn the house down.

And if that was not alarming enough, the Blue Spirit decided to _pass out._

He wanted to faint, too, if possible.

Should he throw him out of his property while he was indisposed, or would that only make him come back to hit him in the head like a boomerang?

Cautiously, he risked a peek under the mask as the Blue Spirit lay unconscious on the floor.

_Agni, help me._

Those posters did _not_ say that the Blue Spirit was a _child._ Then again, they did not even say that he was this _tiny_.

Yan was too old for this.

So he turned to what wise old people were expected to do when faced with difficult youngsters: offer tea and dispense proverbs.

“Please be at ease, Blue Spirit,” he said once his guest seemed conscious enough for conversation.

The Blue Spirit continued to _not_ be at ease.

Yan restrained a sigh. “I swear on my honor that I mean you no harm.” The Blue Spirit (a _child,_ he reminded himself _,_ but he would call him the Blue Spirit _for now_ ) gave a shallow nod, less tense this time at least.

He would much prefer it if the Blue Spirit simply packed up and left, but it appeared to him that he had no intention of doing so anytime soon.

“I am simply an old man in want of company, and I welcome you to my home. Still, I must ask, ‘What brings you here?’”

The Blue Spirit took a moment, drew himself up as if to speak, retreated into himself without a word, and repeated the cycle several times. All the while the old man watched with growing concern as he replayed the spirit’s—the child’s earlier episode in his mind.

“Would you prefer written communication?” Yan asked, already clearing the low table of unused tea implements, when it became clear that the Blue Spirit had given up on speaking for whatever reason.

“They call me ‘Old Scribe Yan.’ As someone who has grown ancient in this profession, I can assure you: rowdy thoughts are easier tamed when you set them loose on paper.”

Without standing, he reached for his writing supplies and carefully placed inkstone, brush, and paper in front of his guest.

The Blue Spirit stared at him, then at the brush, then back at him. Hesitantly, he ground the inkstick against the inkstone, taking longer than necessary in an obvious bid to buy time.

Yan sent a dart of flame to light the nearest paper lamp and pretended not to notice how the Blue Spirit stiffened at the action. “If you wish, we can burn everything you write afterwards to ensure that none of it is used against you.”

Several tense moments passed, and with a sigh the Blue Spirit finally gave up on the inkstick, straightened his posture, and picked up the brush. No stranger to high society, Yan did not fail to notice the elegance of his strokes or the measured efficiency in his movements. _Interesting._

After another pause to consider his thoughts, the Blue Spirit pushed the paper forward.

**_“I strayed too far.”_ **

The whole process of writing was longer than the sentence he received, but Yan was convinced the words, written neatly in Common, spoke volumes about his visitor’s plight. _Curious._

“I see. Would you mind telling me about your journey?”

**_“Just wandering.”_ **

“And stabbing people along the way, hmm?” Yan replied, chuckling. He knew he was in a precarious position, but he could not resist the _jab_ , pun intended. If he was going to die tonight, he was going to die laughing at his own horrible jokes.

 _Here lies Yan of the Roka House,_ stabbed _to death for_ prodding _Death itself._

The sound of the brush slamming against the table startled him out of his thoughts.

**_“I didn’t kill them!”_ **

Hastily written, blotted, and bleeding.

That . . .

. . . took him aback.

It was easy to forget that the Blue Spirit was actually a child what with all the rumors going around.

There was a gruesome rhyme that had become popular among children in recent months. There were also many versions of the Blue Spirit’s tale of heinous deeds, all retold in hushed voices to frighten their listeners.

However, the obvious distraught in this Blue Spirit and the knowledge of what he really was behind the mask were enough reasons for Yan to doubt those claims. Of course, he was aware that he was making a potentially dangerous assessment—the war had stripped away the innocence of so many children like those in the Gaipan Bandit Group.

A gambit, then.

“I believe you.”

The Blue Spirit seemed ready to run, but the words kept him in place.

“Tell me, I will listen.”

**_“Why are you being nice? You’re Fire Nation. I’m your enemy.”_ **

“Kindness is a language understood by all nations.”

Yan waited. And waited. And waited some more. Neutral _jing_ was a scribe’s default after all. 

**_“I was angry and scared and confused but everything I’ve done and am doing is pointless so now I don’t know.”_ **

_‘Just wandering’ indeed._

“It is natural to feel. But if you let negative emotions control your flame, then the smoke will cloud your judgment. You will hurt not only others but also yourself.”

The Blue Spirit groaned. **_“Where do old people get all their proverbs?”_**

_Why do young people not like proverbs?_

“A proverb is drawn from the well of experience,” he drawled, spreading his arms for dramatic effect.

“Drink of it”—Yan raised his teacup as one would raise a cup of _sake_ , took a prolonged sip, and sighed in exaggerated contentment—“and your spirit will be nourished.”

The Blue Spirit cradled his head in exasperation.

 _Ah, how fun to TEAse._ Thankfully, his visitor had not impaled him, yet. But if he heard the pun, would he?

And those last thoughts, ones he had almost missed, made him pause.

These were what Yan knew about his guest so far:

One, the Blue Spirit was an enemy of Fire Nationals.

Two, the Blue Spirit was a firebender.

Three, the Blue Spirit was a child no older than 12 to 14 summers.

_Why is a firebending child, possibly highborn, fighting his own people?_

Suddenly, Yan could no longer see the terrifying Blue Spirit, only the lost little boy in front of him.

Oh, right. He almost forgot:

Four, the Blue Spirit was wanted by the authorities, _dead or alive_.

_Merciful Agni, this is quite the predicament you got me into._

The boy was bristling again, and Yan realized he was chuckling. It was truly a troublesome habit of his to laugh at inopportune moments.

Clearing his throat, he took a sip of his tea as he considered his options. People had told him he was a chaotic, if not completely crazy, Pai Sho player.

Alright. Another gambit.

“This story may seem strange, but I will share it with you anyway.”

Confirming his audience’s attention, he continued.

“The war was still young when I was born to parents of Fire and Earth. Our family was a strategic union, prior to the war, of two declining noble houses—an effort to salvage what little they had left. Since both were scribal lineages, the union created a stronger house proficient in both nation’s scribal traditions. Incidentally, this became both advantageous and disadvantageous to the family as the Fire Nation claimed more and more of the Earth Kingdom. But that story is for another time.”

The boy moved as if to protest. Yan acknowledged his silent question with a nod.

“You must be wondering why Fire would willingly join Earth. Before the war tore the nations apart, people were more open to other elements than they are today. Records say that the Air Nomads, the very people the Fire Nation fought to start the war, used to walk and fly freely across the Four Nations. Perhaps more surprising to this generation, Fire Nationals used to ask them for blessings! People saw them as envoys of good luck for their high spirituality.”

The boy jerked backwards in obvious disbelief. Yan understood his reaction—Fire Nation common knowledge painted the “Air Nation” as ravenous baby stealers with no concept of filial piety.

“Even the Water Tribes, now isolated from the rest of the world, used to open their homes to anyone, people of Fire included, who sought their medical expertise as waterbenders.”

These days, the Fire Nation saw “Water Savages” as rogue pirates and witches who froze the blood of their enemies with their cursed waterbending. They were known as La-worshipping heathens who chained people to rocks and threw them into the sea as live sacrifices to the Ocean Spirit.

“You see, relationships were built anywhere with anyone. Common, the most widely spoken language in the world and one with no clear origin, is older than the war. It is proof that people can work together and come to an understanding.”

Times had changed so much, he knew but did not say. After years of strife, many found such ideas impossible, if not abhorrent. The world had not known peace in almost a century—even he, old as he was, had screamed his first screams in a war-torn land, learning of a bygone era only from the written records and oral histories of the long-dead. Their stories elicited in him an incredulity he was now seeing in this child, and if not for their family’s long scribal history and their professional integrity he would not have believed a single word from those forbidden records.

Sozin, in his conceit, proclaimed himself the beginning of Fire Nationhood and scorned the millennia of human labor on which his meager achievements were founded. “Age of Glory” he called it, but to everyone else who knew better it was “After the Genocide” of a peaceful race.

To feed the war, the Fire Lords burned not only lands but also history.

Despite everything, they upheld their House’s own brand of honor as scribes—historians, scholars, recorders, preservers—and did what they must.

It was why their House had fallen, why he could no longer claim their Fire Nation name.

But maybe, just like what their library of “treasonous” knowledge had done for him, he could open a path for a misguided child trapped in a dangerous internal battle.

“People used to ask me where my loyalties lie. Am I Fire or Earth? I say either, both, and neither. I am my own person, and I will follow what _I_ believe is right.

“Now, do _I_ think _you_ are _my enemy_? I think you just need some tea and company.”

They sat in silence for a long time—Yan sipping the last of his drink, the Blue Spirit studying a nearby paper lamp. As Yan contemplated another cup of tea, the boy began writing again.

**_“This is a story about a little dragon hatchling. His father is a strong dragon, but the hatchling is very weak so his father hates him because he can’t breathe very hot fire like him even though he keeps trying.”_ **

If he was reading between the lines correctly, then it was the boy’s own story. His choice of words supported his earlier suspicions of the child’s noble birth. Yan knew well how nobles pushed their children too far in their selfish desire for perfection, burning through the fuel quickly for want of large, brilliant flames. The boy must have worked hard but not hard enough for his exacting father.

Every now and then, the Blue Spirit paused mid-sentence, his breath sounding labored behind his mask.

 ** _“One day, Father and his other dragons wanted to_** sacrifice ** _dragon eggs to trick their enemies. The hatchling_** denounced ** _their plan. Father called him a_** coward ** _and burned him for his_** insolence ** _. He drove him out of his home, and said he must_** toil _**in a foreign land to redeem himself.”**_

From the odd characters peppering his writing, the boy appeared to be confusing National with Common. As the tale went on, his neat handwriting morphed into a drunken poet’s grass script, but not for aesthetic reasons.

His brush hand shook throughout.

 **“ _He lied. It was an excuse. He hated_** failure ** _, and I was one.”_**

He paused for such a long time that Yan doubted he had more to say. But, as scribes always did, he waited.

Resuming, the Blue Spirit gave up on his choppy Common and slipped into fluent Caldera:

**_For the Black Dragon who loved Flames above all else, a hatchling without spark had more worth dead than alive. By the light of Tui, while Agni slumbered, the Black Dragon doused its own hatchling’s inner fire with La’s tears._ **

With neither the care nor the elegance the rest of it had, the tale ended:

**_“He died. The end.”_ **

Yan stared at the words, struggling to find a way for them to mean anything other than what he feared they truly meant.

The boy’s father tried to kill him.

The old scribe wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but he managed to restrain himself this time.

Life was truly unfair.

He had no children left. He never even had the chance to get a grandchild.

He remembered his own daughter, her hands small and fragile in his as he held her for minutes and hours and days until sickness took her away from him forever.

He remembered his son, beaming with pride as he showed off his letter of appointment to the city treasury office, later coming home in a nondescript urn as red as the blood he spilled in the crossfire.

He remembered Fisherman Mo’s devastation when the ocean returned his son cold and blue and lifeless.

He remembered Lady Nam’s vacant eyes and broken mind after the baby she begged Agni for so long did not make it to sunrise.

He remembered all the children who would remain children for eternity, living on only in the memories of their anguished family.

He remembered them and his pain that never quite left despite the years. 

_The boy’s father tried to kill him._

And that child he had discarded was in front of him, shaking in fear, confusion, and a whole host of emotions he could not begin to imagine.

He wanted to throw _someone_ inside a furnace and let that _someone_ burn until there was nothing left.

He took a steadying breath. No, this would not do.

“Thank you for telling me this story. But I think I know another version.”

Yan took the brush and wrote with the steady hand of a skilled scribe:

` _Awoken by the hatchling’s cries, Agni hurries to his rescue. He wraps the little dragon’s shivering body in the warmth of His presence and stokes his inner fire with His own Sacred Flame. Later, Agni will make the evil Dragon answer for his crimes, but for now He must see to this child. Far away from the Black Dragon’s lair, He seeks the badgermoles’ aid, and in their care He entrusts the hatchling until he is ready to fly again._ `

A lengthy quiet punctuated their conversation once more. Yan left the boy to his contemplation and allowed his own mind to drift.

The Blue Spirit courted Danger and danced with Death, but sooner or later they would tire of their game and drag him to a tragic end. Yan could not in good conscience allow this child to continue on his aimless path of self-destruction.

_They shouldn’t die so young._

The soft rustling of paper drew him out of his musings. Looking down at the delicate calligraphy, he read:

**_“Thank you.”_ **

Yan held the paper in his hands with reverence, committing each stroke to memory and treasuring the words in his heart. He smiled at the boy, and though he could not see his face he could tell that some weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Your Common needs work, but your writing in general is impressive for your age.” From his periphery he could see the boy fidget. The poor child seemed unused to praise, and it spurred the old scribe’s ire for his ungrateful father. “It’s a waste,” he truly felt it was, “but I shall burn these as promised.”

The boy nodded, and Yan gave the piece one final look before feeding it to the flames. The two watched the deed with the same sort of solemnity people reserved for sacred rites.

They were reaching the endgame, he knew.

The paper in ashes, Yan addressed him in the gentlest tone he could muster.

“Young one, you must be growing weary of swords…” The boy still bristled despite his effort and so, more carefully, he soldiered on, “and I believe our meeting was destiny.”

He fixed his gaze on the boy who sat unmoving like a statue.

“Would you like to learn a way with words?”

A long silence.

Then, a sharp intake of breath. Suddenly, the flames died all at once, plunging the room into darkness.

By the time Yan found his bearings, the Blue Spirit was already gone.

* * *

Sometime later, when he was about convinced the Blue Spirit was a dream, on a rare day Agni was out to smile upon the winter landscape, the old scribe found a golden-eyed boy and an ostrich horse in his front yard. The boy shuffled his feet and fiddled with the strap of his sword but said nothing even as the ostrich horse nipped on his cropped hair.

Yan did not mean to stare, but he could not ignore how jarring the huge burn was on the child’s pale face. The boy obviously did not appreciate the gesture and challenged him with a scowl made harsher by the scar.

“ _Father called him a coward and burned him for his insolence.”_

Pushing the thought away for later, Yan eased his face into a playful smile. Hopefully, the boy could appreciate a cup of tea this time.

“… _until he is ready to fly again.”_

“Tea?”

The boy blushed redder than cinnabar ink.

* * *

` _My ever charitable friend Kuretake,_`

` _You, oh gracious tea-loving benefactor of mine, have my sincere gratitude for these exquisite white dragon bush leaves. Others may call its flavor a heartbreaker, but I believe otherwise. This old hearth has never felt so warm in a long time._`

`_Thus I say to you: This tea is so delicious, it could mend a broken_ hearth _!_`

` _Please come share a cup with me and my grandson next time (we would highly appreciate your generous donation of exotic tea leaves)._`

` _Your ever grateful friend,_`

` _Jinhao_`

* * *

` _No-tea-for-nutty Jinhao,_`

` _Stop mooching off me, you conniving old scribe. Where will you even get a grandson? They do not simply show up in one’s front yard._`

` _Your not-sponsor,_`

` _Kuretake_`

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It’s actually an OWL+Beifong adoption AU lol. I hope you don’t mind me giving him a grandpa. Known ATLA OWLs are masters of combat, but this scribe AU needed a master of arts. A bit like Gyatso if the monk was a walking library, made bad jokes, and laughed at the wrong time. Maybe a bit of Roku/Azulon when serious/angry.
> 
> When is Zuko gonna meet Toph tho???
> 
> Y’all…..…He already did. 
> 
> Next: Feral fake-spirit and foul-mouthed badgermole kid go on a fun adventure (set before Jet and co). 
> 
> [Comparison of Chinese script styles](https://www.ibiblio.org/chineseculture/contents/arts/p-arts-c02s02.html)   
>  [Four treasures of the study](http://www.chinaonlinemuseum.com/painting-four-treasures.php)   
>  [Japanese picture scroll ( _emakimono_ )](https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/jilh/hd_jilh.htm)


	7. Interlude: A Waiting World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toph wants to learn the commoner’s tongue, but her tutor is gone and her unauthorized “immersion” trip isn’t going well.  
> Problem 1: She talks like an old theater scroll.  
> Problem 2: There are more languages than she thought.  
> Problem 3: The only person who can fully understand her can’t speak.  
> Problem 4: Toph can’t read what he’s writing.  
> Problem 5: What is ‘coin’?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Ableism, swearing, lots of misunderstandings, dank memes**
> 
> So I missed my weekly deadline and thought, “what’s another week” and then……
> 
> Earth Rumble? More like Earth Ramble. I've given up on editing this very weird chapter so i'm just going to send this rambling child with a sugar rush into the wild ~~the secret ingredient is angst~~. 
> 
> Canon Toph’s so cool we tend to forget she was a sheltered kid with almost zero social life pre-canon/pre-Earth Rumble. I thought it’d be fun to pair an awkward turtleduck with an awkward badgermole (why is that not a tag) and maybe explore a Toph who’s only beginning to resist the things she’s been conditioned to do and think. Needless to say, this interlude's Toph is gonna be a bit different from her usual portrayal. Toph’s 9 (8) and Zuko’s 13 (12). 
> 
> What’s a multilingual world without…code-switching! Basically, it’s when two or more languages are used in a conversation. Upper Ring is underlined. Omissions are words/sentences Toph can’t understand.
> 
> If you want to learn real-world linguistics from credible sources (obviously not this super shady fanfic author and this badly written, handwavy, experimental fic), you can check out the links below. “Further Reading” also added to the previous chapters ~~to make up for my inaccuracies~~
> 
> Oh look it’s inktober ~~to make up for my poor writing~~

### Interlude: A Waiting World

“By Kyoshi’s stinking boot.”

“By Kyoshi’s stinking boot?” Toph repeated the phrase a dozen times in her mind trying to understand why they felt _wrong._ Her language tutor had mentioned the existence of “bad words to avoid” and, at her insistence, offered her this example. Imagining the smell was not particularly delightful.

“You swear by the Avatar’s malodorous footwear that you will resort to drastic measures if the situation is not corrected,” he explained.

Toph cringed. Hearing it in Upper Ring made it even more disgusting than it already was. Her tutor laughed at her reaction.

“Yes, this expression is foul, inelegant.”

He brought his teacup to his mouth, the tea cold from their long lesson, and quietly blew on the drink. Toph wondered if he needed it to cleanse his palette after speaking those _unpleasant_ words. His tea was warm again, but he might have to reheat it several times more if the lesson went even longer than it already was. Not that she minded it—the alternative was to sit through Master Yu’s breathing exercises and baby katas.

After a sip and another chuckle, he said, _“_ Don’t say it in front of your parents. They _will_ get mad.”

She frowned at the warning. Frowning was “unladylike,” she was told again and again, but her language tutor had made it clear the first time they met that he was not a stickler for rules. If he was, he would not even dare teaching her Common, much less this “inelegant” phrase.

“But why do we have it if I can’t say it?”

He hummed as he stroked his beard in thought. 

“You can use foul words to express extreme feelings in situations where you don’t have to save face. Use it with company you don’t mind offending.”

“It sounds disruptive.”

“It is.” He sounded amused for some reason. Then, after a pause, he added, “In high society, especially.”

So _that_ was the reason it felt wrong.

“I think I understand now.”

The expression went against the rules of politeness drilled into their heads.

A rebellious phrase. She could make use of it.

Toph smiled in that too sweet, too pleasant way her etiquette tutor had taught her. This time, it felt right on her face.

Someday.

“Thank you, _Sifu_ Hotman.”

* * *

Clink. Clink.

Water gurgling.

There was an elderly guest at the dinner table. She had seen-felt-heard him once or twice before through her earth sense, but this was the first time they had ever been in the same room. For her father to give up his place on the table and to sit to the guest’s right, the elderly man must be someone of importance.

Toph sat next to her father, unmoving, waiting. He always kept her within his reach.

Immobile, silent, and dull.

She was her parents’ porcelain doll.

Clink. Clink.

Hot steam wafting.

Huu, huu.

A servant blows on her tea to cool it down.

She was a doll they took out of the high shelf on special occasions only. Afraid of breaking its delicate body and tearing its expensive dress, they used their feather-light hands to guide the doll’s thin limbs.

This way twisting, that way turning.

Like children playing make-believe stories with their little toy, the adults around her defined what she was, what she could do, and what she could become.

_“This is simply how it is done.”_

Huu, huu.

Warm steam wafting.

Tea was ready for their little tea party.

They believed what they saw, and Toph, a fragile child who did not have their sight, believed what they told her to believe.

Chatter, chatter.

Blah blah blah.

That was three years ago, though, before she met her badgermole friends. Before she learned how to “see.” After gaining her own “sight,” she thought it was more accurate to describe herself as a little sparrowkeet in a cage singing the songs it was born to sing, saying the sayings it was taught to say. Just as a well-trained bird knew when to open its beak at its master’s behest, it also knew when to keep it shut.

Chirp, chirp.

Silence.

But to her parents, she was still their little porcelain doll. So, Toph sat next to her father, waiting for the doll’s viewing hours to end.

Immobile. Silent. Dull.

_“This is simply how it is done.”_

She did not expect to be addressed directly as if she was a living person.

“This (ragged) old man had not seen this (esteemed) household’s lovely flower for years. How are you, (esteemed) young lady?”

Thump, thump.

Her heart leaped, startled.

She could see-feel-hear that he was talking to her, but her father answered in her stead, “Indeed, (esteemed) teacher _._ She (elegant one) was but a small bud the last time you (venerable one) caught a glimpse of her.”

Toph kept quiet and let her father do the talking. He did not ask for the bird to sing. Even her mother was faithful to her own role as the nobleman’s docile wife. They were mere supporting characters in this boring story.

_“This is simply how it is done.”_

“How is she (esteemed one) doing with her studies?”

_Boring and useless._

“She (elegant one) has started her earthbending lessons with Master Yu. Careful instruction was requested from the master, of course.”

They had been doing breathing exercises for _weeks_. He would not even let her, an _earthbender_ , touch mud.

“Lady Myong ensures that she (elegant one) will bloom into a well-mannered lady fit to marry an esteemed house.”

Yes, her etiquette tutor’s cold fingers were very good at pulling her cheeks into a fake smile.

“And her language studies?”

“Her Upper Ring is excellent for her age.”

“What of Common or Standard?”

“Ah, _Sensei_ , there’s no need for her to bother with other languages,” her father said, switching to the commoner tongue in an attempt to shield her from the conversation.

He did not know that she understood the commoner tongue—with some difficulty, yes, but well enough to know the gist. Her own “language studies” involved _years_ of eavesdropping on people’s conversations. Having so much free time left her with nothing else to do but _listen_.

Listen to her parents. Listen to her tutors. Listen to her servants. Listen to everyone who never listened to her.

“Oh, Lao. What would Liu say? You of all people should know how useful it is to be capable in more than one language.”

Most likely, her parents thought that another language would taint her elegant Upper Ring speech. It would explain why their servants _never_ talked to her. She could understand them, but she could never speak like them.

Language put them in their own places.

“She only needs Upper Ring to participate in high society.”

_But they do not even know I exist._

_“Father, I (elegant bloom) wish to play with other children. Why must this little one remain here all the time?”_

_“Forgive me, my daughter. This is simply how it is done.”_

The elder laughed. She was not sure what he found funny. Her father’s robes rustled as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“The world is large, Lao. Do you wish to cut your child off from everyone else?”

_They already did._

“I understand what you mean, _Sensei_. But as you can see…”

_You see a blind girl._

“I know you only wish what you think is the best for your child, but sometimes you have to ask them if that is truly what they want for themselves.”

Her father sighed, then continued in a morose tone, “I simply don’t wish to burden her.”

_Or maybe you do not wish to be burdened with me._

The table fell silent. As a proper Earth Kingdom man, her father was an obstinate rock.

Unfortunately for him, his old teacher was his own brand of stubborn.

“Let me ask her, then. Learning requires the learner’s motivation anyway,” he insisted.

Rustle, rustle.

Clink. Clink.

Tea must be savored one small sip at a time, she was told repeatedly, but her father was sipping longer than what was appropriate. It was something he always did when he was grasping for another topic or when he wanted to avoid conversation altogether.

Silence.

Clink.

“Dear,” her mother broke the heavy quiet, much to Toph’s surprise. She had always been subservient to her father’s will. “It may not be my place to say this, but I think there is merit in Master Luchuang’s suggestion. I’d like to think that my knowledge of Common has helped you govern this household in some way. There’s no harm in letting her learn this skill for her future family’s benefit, is there?”

Her father suppressed another sigh. Sighing was poor conduct. Her father had his bouts of bad temper around their servants, but as a nobleman he would not want to show his bad side to someone who was old enough to have known him in his youth. By the way he addressed her late grandfather, Master Luchuang must be a family friend.

“Of course. Please, _Sensei_.”

She could see-feel-hear their guest’s well-concealed excitement.

“(Esteemed) young lady, this (ragged) old man would like to pose a question to you,” he began.

She inclined her head in their general direction to signify her attention. Sighted people needed their visual cues. She had been listening from the very beginning, but they did not have to know that.

“You are free to speak your mind on this matter, dear daughter.”

Chirp, chirp.

It was time for the sparrowkeet to sing. What song would she sing for her audience?

“Would you (esteemed one) not agree that being able to express yourself in many different ways—to communicate with all sorts of people—is an exciting prospect?” the elder asked.

In a world where all she could do was listen? Where everyone told her what they wanted, but never asked her what _she_ wanted?

“This little one believes so, (esteemed) master.”

“Would you like to learn how?”

Her father clearly did not want her to. He wanted her to refuse. She could sense his apprehension.

But, on this night, the sparrowkeet would sing a different song.

“If the (esteemed) master would allow it, this little one would humbly submit herself to his instruction.”

* * *

Rustle, rustle.

Chirp, chirp.

Breeze in. Breeze out.

Leaves crunching under feet.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Bird songs sounding sweet.

Fwoo, fwoo—

Boring Master Yu.

Toph was no poet, but Master Yu was no master either. He was a supporting character who believed he was the protagonist.

Why should she spend this nice autumn morning doing breathing exercises with this hack? This would not have happened if only her parents had not decided to reschedule her earthbending lessons.

Toph had been learning Common under Master Luchuang’s intensive instruction since summer. He explained things well—too well in fact that she used to be able to get away from Master Yu’s babysitting by taking advantage of Master Luchuang’s lengthy explanations. All she needed to do was keep asking him questions until he lost track of time and dragged their lesson longer than scheduled.

She could sense her earthbending tutor’s annoyance every time it happened, but he had no choice but to accept what he was given. Master Luchuang outranked Master Yu in terms of age, and her father would rather not offend his own teacher.

It was one of those few times that “how things were done” worked in her favor.

“My apologies, Father. The lesson was simply engrossing,” she would say every time. It was not a lie—their lessons were truly interesting. It just so happened that they were useful in some other way.

But then they switched their timeslots. Earthbending first, language next.

If only she could ditch her boring earthbending master, his boring voice, his boring Upper Ring interpreter, and his boring exercises.

Bustle, bustle.

“This should be enough for today,” she heard him say. She could understand him better than before, but they still employed an Upper Ring interpreter for him. Most likely her father’s doing.

“Thank you for the lesson, (venerable) master.”

Swish-swoosh.

A perfect bow.

Their family physician said that it was unhealthy to suppress one’s bending and would not allow her to go without earthbending lessons.

As if that was not what they were doing to her by limiting her to breathing exercises.

Both of her parents were non-benders. They could never understand the earth—the singing, the calling, the yearning, the _being._

Still, she was not yet ready to tell them that she could _probably_ defeat the so-called best earthbender in the world in a duel.

Probably. She had not fought humans before to know for sure.

An odd part of her wanted to try. It was an “uncultured” thing to do, to _think_ even.

It was only under extreme pressure that her father agreed to let her do something as harmless as learning a language. It would take much, much more for this immovable mountain to let his precious flower do something as dangerous as fighting.

She could not simply approach her father one day and say, “Father, I crave violence.”

But it was there, and she was not sure what to do about it.

She decided to focus on the problems she knew how to fix, one being her language practice. Apparently, beyond her lessons, she was not getting as much as she should. _Sifu_ Hotman told her to practice with people around her.

She was not sure how helpful they were.

Her mother talked to her in Common at certain times of the day. Sometimes, she read love stories to her. When those times of the day had passed, she switched back to Upper Ring.

Their servants kept themselves scarce. Pitter-pattering, swish-swooshing.

But she knew where they were at all times. She had a good mental map of the estate, and there was nowhere they could hide from her if she concentrated on her earth sense. Her heart drummed whenever she approached them, but she swallowed whatever she was feeling to ask them simple things.

 _Practice, practice, practice._ It was her mantra like the kroo kroo kroo of the cricket hopper.

They usually went from nervous to confused to amused, but they always responded in short, polite sentences. Either they did not want to offend her or she was doing alright because none of them commented on her speech. That aside, listening for gossip was certainly easier. 

Her father kept talking to her in Upper Ring.

Clink. Clink.

“That’s what they do,” she said, concluding her report.

Master Luchuang set a cup of warm tea—his own brew—in front of her. She stopped taking tea in the morning because he _always_ made tea during their lesson.

“You’re doing fine, but you’ll likely learn faster with community ‘immersion,’” he replied. “By that I mean, ‘go out and talk to fun people.’ Everyone here must be boring.”

“Not you,” she said after a sip of her tea. He was especially funny whenever he read fighting stories to her. Her mother was entertaining, too, but she always chose romantic stories.

_“Mother, will there be no battles?”_

_“Oh, a lady appreciates romantic tales. This reminds your mother of her first meeting with your esteemed father…Ah! Thump thump! How this young maiden’s heart fluttered!”_

She listened, but deep inside she knew she preferred the “Hong! Pa! Shua!” over what _Sifu_ Hotman called the “Waku waku, kira kira!” Those sounds did not make much sense to her.

“I want to get out of here. If possible.”

More sparky sparky boom.

Make friends, maybe.

Better yet, sparky sparky boom friends.

“I doubt your parents will let you out of the house when rumors of the Blue Spirit are everywhere.”

“What’s the Blue Spirit?” she asked. She remembered hearing about this name from their servants. When she asked them what it was, they offered two differing views:

“It is a scary spirit with a scary face,” one camp claimed. They sounded genuinely frightened by what it looked like. Nose, eyes, ears, mouth—faces were fuzzy things that took effort to distinguish from one another. She rarely paid attention to them and the expressions they made—she preferred the faster, easier signals she could see-feel-hear—and so, beyond what Lady Myong taught her, she knew not of what sighted people considered appealing on one’s face.

“It is an amazing Earth Kingdom guardian,” the other camp said. They seemed awed by whatever it was that it did. They did not care to elaborate, however.

Why was it “blue”? Was it sad?

“They say that he is a _vengeful spirit_ who attacks people,” Master Luchuang replied in a theatrically creepy voice. “He wears an _angry_ mask.”

She knew what angry looked like. Once, when she threw a tantrum during Lady Myong’s lesson, she was told to “discard that angry face.” She scrunched up her face the way she remembered doing back then, recalled the utter frustration she felt, and ran her fingers on her features.

Clink, clink.

Huu.

He was drinking tea again. Why people always drank tea was beyond her, but that was simply “how it is done.”

“Then?”

“Out of the darkness, whoosh! He jumps out with a pair of _dao_! Swing, swing! His victims are in pieces!”

This description did not tell her much. If that was the Blue Spirit’s gimmick, then he was not scary to her at all.

“I’m not scared of the darkness.”

“Oh?”

She grinned and waved a hand in front of her eyes. The odd elder laughed. Her parents would have been stunned into silence.

“Oh, my dear Toph. Do not say such unkind things about yourself,” her father would say. She did not pity herself for not having their kind of sight—she just wished her parents understood this and allowed themselves to laugh at her strange “unkind” humor.

She could not remember the last time they laughed wholeheartedly with her.

“I’m a big girl,” she said to Master Luchuang, but more to herself to will away her sad thoughts. The Blue Spirit’s tale should be a good distraction.

Her teacher’s past stories were more detailed, so he was not telling her things on purpose. Maybe he thought she was an easily frightened little girl.

But she was a big girl, and she was not frightened of anything anymore.

“Tell me more about this spirit. If I’m not scared, then he’s not scary.”

“You want me to scare you?”

“I will not be scared.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really, really sure?”

“Really, really sure, sure.”

He hummed, sipping his tea. Moments later, he spoke in a calm, hushed voice unlike the one he used earlier.

“Imagine yourself confined in an unfamiliar room, about the size of your receiving hall but with none of the doors, the windows, the drapes, and the furniture. Up, down, all around, there is neither stone nor timber—only unyielding metal.

“There is no way in and no way out.

“You stand in the middle of this room, far away from the walls, without a clue where north, south, east, or west is. It is deathly still and quiet—no cricket hopper, no owl cat, no leaves rustling in the night breeze.

“Yet, the air bites at your skin like it does on the coldest of winter evenings.

“The only movement in this room is your own beating heart. You are alone.

“Out of nowhere, a sudden wind rushes behind you. Rough, hard wood presses against your nape, and long, pointed fangs pierce your skin.

“You cannot move.

“You hear the keening of steel against steel like the wailing of a strangled beast. The smell of rust fills your nose.

“Drip, drip, drip. Warm liquid pools at your feet.

“Too late, you realize—you are the wailing beast, and your once-beating heart has ceased.”

When the tale ended, neither of them spoke for a long while. The distant sounds of activity and her loudly beating heart filled the silence.

“Were you scared?”

“……….no.”

Clink-clank.

Pitter-patter.

Chitter-chatter.

“Jiiiiiii—”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the sound of staring.”

“Staring has a sound?”

“Jii—”

“Please stop staring.”

* * *

Toph lay awake on a soft “darkness.”

She was a big girl— _really_ , she was—so there must be some _other_ reason she could not sleep well that night.

Kroo kroo—

Hoo hoo—

Fwooo—

Rustle, rustle.

_Jii—_

She threw back her too-warm blanket, got off her too-soft silken bed, and lay on the too-hard earthen floor. Almost instantly, the world came into her “view.” The Blue Spirit was _not_ staring at her because he was _not_ there.

She did not care about servants finding her asleep on the ground in the morning. At least she would be _sleeping._

_Jii—_

She grabbed her blanket and threw it over herself like a warding spell.

In this sleep-deprived state, she realized something:

Master Luchuang was mean and awful and horrible and mean and awful awful awful _awful—_

She decided never to test the elder again.

* * *

“Is it just me, or does she look haggard today?”

“(Venerable) Master Yu inquires if the the (elegant) young lady has had sufficient rest.”

Toph gave the earthbending tutor and his interpreter the angriest face she could make.

* * *

Come late autumn, Master Luchuang’s visits became less frequent. 

“Cold weather doesn’t agree with my people,” he explained. She assumed it had something to do with old age.

The air was getting chilly. Strangely, the room was always warmer when her language tutor was around.

It made her sleepy.

“Nuku nuku.”

He was saying strange words again.

“What’s that?”

“The sound of warmth and comfort. Like when you want to tuck yourself into a cozy bed.”

“I don’t get it.”

How could soundless things have sound?

But yes, it was warm.

Like sitting near a cozy fireplace.

Maybe that was why he told her to call him _Sifu_ Hotman.

He was a walking earthen furnace.

When she told him what she thought, he chuckled and muttered, “Yes, our family’s ‘here’ and ‘there.’”

Adult words were confusing. She assumed it had something to do with old age.

“You look sleepy. How about we cut our lesson short?”

Her days rarely changed. A break from routine would be good.

“Okay.”

* * *

The next day, he did not come for their lesson.

And the next. And the next.

“The (venerable) master will be unable to join us,” her father simply said when she asked why Master Luchuang had not been visiting for days.

She assumed it had something to do with old age.

* * *

Smooth, lacquered wood. It was thin and light and fit her just right, but the musty smell from long storage was quite off-putting. Toph removed the mask she had swiped from their storehouse and re-examined its features.

By her aesthetic standards, she deemed it rather plain. She had taken it secretly to use as a reference for what she was about to make, but she clearly needed to make major design changes if she wanted her creation to be believable.

The Blue Spirit was not plain. It was fearsome.

Toph took the clay pot she had taken from the same storehouse and began molding it into the shape of a mask. Master Luchuang called his expression “angry,” so his brows would be furrowed and his mouth would be pulled down into a deep frown. Fangs that pierced flesh meant they were long and pointy, so she extended and sharpened the mask’s teeth. If eyes narrowed when brows furrowed, then the eyeholes should be thin slits. She knew how human faces looked like, but the Blue Spirit was inhuman. The less normal it appeared, the better.

Checking over her completed work, Toph felt a twinge of unease. Was it because of what she had done or because of what she was _about to do_?

This was not the first time she had left the estate. Three years ago, she ran away and discovered badgermoles and earthbending. That went great. In the years that followed, she made frequent trips outside to play with her badgermole friends. Those also went great. They abandoned the tunnels half a year ago, but that did not stop her from visiting their old playground. Those went…fine.

Admittedly, she had never interacted with other people during those trips. The nest was far away from human settlements, and she stayed underground for the most part. The only child she had ever dared approaching ran away screaming and crying about child-stealing spirit children. She was pretty sure she was not a child-stealing spirit child, but sighted people often saw things differently.

People blamed everything on spirits. Just like what she was about to do.

The plan was simple: leave the estate and go to the center of activity. The commoners’ settlements were currently out of her earth sense’s reach, but she was confident that she could locate them once she was out of the estate.

She hid the wooden mask underground and placed the Blue Spirit mask on her bed. Finding the terrifying mask the next day, her mother, a devotee of romance and spirit tales, would think that she had been spirited away. That should give her as much time as she wanted to be away from this stifling cage.

She was not a damsel in distress, a mere accessory, in her mother’s love stories. She was going to be the protagonist of this adventure.

What use was learning Common if she could not put it into practice? She had waited, hoping for the day her father would change his mind about keeping her shut inside, but all her waiting was for nothing.

Toph opened a tunnel leading outside.

Wait.

Fun protagonists had secret identities.

She recovered the wooden mask from where she had buried it. After dusting it off, she covered her face and entered the tunnel.

It was time to “go out and talk to fun people.”

* * *

Going out was _not_ fun.

Toph sensed a woman headed towards her just in time to step out of her way, but someone else bumped into her. _Again._

Where did all these people come from?!

The square was teeming with people who moved with neither purpose nor order. The ants in their garden marched with more discipline than these mass of bodies.

“Cabbages! Fresh cabbages!”

“*****? Three silver **** for ******? **** silver, no more.”

“Hey, ****! ****************!”

And everyone was too _loud_! She could hear Common everywhere, but it was mixed with _other_ languages she had never heard before. She had not considered that commoners spoke languages other than Common.

Absolute madness!

Was this what her parents were trying to protect her from?

No.

_Stop._

Taking a deep breath, Toph squeezed through the crowd and went to an empty corner to recollect herself. This place was overwhelming her earth sense, she admitted, but only because it was full of _life._ She had never seen-felt-heard this many people bustling about in one place. This was far from what she was used to at home, but that did not mean that this was _bad_ just because it was different.

She could handle this much. She did not need her parents’ protection.

With another deep breath, Toph calmed her fluttering heart. She narrowed her focus and listened to her immediate surroundings. Neutral _jing_ had always worked for her.

“—can’t wait for this evening’s Earth Rumble. **********, The Boulder’s gonna throw that loser out of the ring like a ragdoll—”

“—******** watch ******* get bashed on the head with a giant rock—”

“—what, it’s awesome. ************ skilled earthbenders fight—”

A nearby conversation caught Toph’s attention. Narrowing her focus even more, she identified the speakers as two young males gesturing animatedly a few paces away from her. Thankfully, they used their unfamiliar language sparingly. From what she gathered, this “Earth Rumble” was an underground fighting competition among earthbenders. The next match was later in the evening.

Interesting.

Despite these unexpected hurdles, she had found a new purpose. She must go to this place where earthbenders gathered to “get bashed on the head” and “throw the loser out of the ring like a ragdoll.” She needed to see-feel-hear for herself what kind of barbaric activities they used their earthbending for.

“Excuse me,” she said to the pair. “Where is this ‘Earth Rumble’ you speak of?”

“What’s up with that mask?” one of the boys responded.

“It’s an opera mask,” Toph replied. Was that not obvious? How uncultured.

The other nudged him, laughing, “Must be a fan of The Headhunter.”

Toph suppressed a sigh. It was a simple question. Why were they being difficult?

“Would you tell me?”

“It's on the island of Noneya...”

“Sorry. Where?”

“Noneya business!”

The two left Toph with more questions than answers.

Where was the Island of Nunya Bee’s Nest?

* * *

Talking to people was _not fun._

After her fruitless conversation with the boys, she approached several others to inquire about Earth Rumble’s location. Nobody gave her a decent answer. Every mention of the Island of Nunya Bee’s Nest earned her a rude remark. The more she asked, the more she was ignored, and the more she was rejected, the tighter the knot in her stomach became.

Preposterous. Truly _preposterous._

Where were the “fun people” she was promised?!

Dejected, Toph followed the old badgermole tunnels with no particular destination in mind. Badgermoles could not speak, but they also could not hurt her with words. No matter how far she extended her earth sense, however, she could not detect any of the badgermoles she had befriended.

She could not fault them for leaving. They welcomed her and taught her their ways, but in the end they were creatures of Earth who _must_ be with the Earth. Unlike her, they were _free_. They could go wherever they wanted.

They had no familial ties and duties to worry about. Nobody’s love and approval to crave.

She wanted to go home and forget about this day.

Thud, thud.

Toph snapped out of her thoughts and directed her attention toward the presence. Farther ahead, by the mouth of the cave that led to the tunnels, she saw-felt-heard two forms.

Huh.

Nobody else went inside their tunnels.

As silently as she could, she opened a shortcut from her position to the cave where the foreigners were. Closer, she made out the figure of a big animal and a human male child.

Shift.

Oh.

The boy was facing her, one hand gripping metal—no, a sword strapped to his back. Heart racing, muscles tense, he stood like he was ready to _fight._

“Uh…” Toph floundered. She did not prepare for an introduction. She did not mean to alert him at all— she was supposed to stay at a safe distance to observe, not talk.

“How do you do, fellow kids?”

The ostrich horse could not be considered a human “kid”—it was an animal, a feathered biped at that, and much, much bigger than her—but she had already said the plural.

Snort.

It was the ostrich horse.

It was not the kid, who had not dropped his stance at all, who snorted at her.

It was the _ostrich horse._

Her face felt hot.

Why was an ostrich horse mocking her, too?!

“Silence, filthy beast! Do not mock me!”

Silence.

Long silence.

Gradually, as his heart slowed, the boy relaxed his stance and lowered his hand from his weapon.

Scratch, scratch.

With a twig, he made marks on the ground. She was not sure what those lines and curves meant. They looked like the embellishments on their mansion’s walls.

“What are those symbols you’re making?”

He stopped what he was doing and turned towards her with his head inclined to the side. He swished his hand in the air the way someone holding a brush did while—

“Oh, you’re writing. You can’t talk?”

He sighed and pulled out what must be slate and chalk judging by their earthen “voice.” He scratched the chalk against the slate and held the flat rock up to show her what he had written.

“Why are you always writing? You’re like…like a…a scribe. Scribing, writing…scribe-ing and write-y. Very scribe-y.”

 _More_ scritch-scratching.

“Speak loud! I’m blind!” she snapped at him.

She could almost hear the _jii_ of his staring.

Toph took a calming breath, removed her wooden mask, and replaced it with the metaphorical court mask she had been trained to wear since childhood.

“My apologies. Do you understand me? One knock for ‘no,’ two knocks for ‘yes.’”

Scribey considered her suggestion for a moment.

Knock, knock.

Good. They were finally making progress. It was unlikely but—

“Do you (ragged one) understand these words?”

He huffed, seemingly offended.

Knock, knock.

Well, well, well.

“Are you a retainer?”

Knock.

“Are you a noble?”

His heart ran as fast as a meadow vole fleeing from a fox cat. She waited, but he refused to answer her even after his heart returned to its normal state.

“Okay, three knocks for ‘maybe.’”

Three-one-three-two.

“How sassy, Lord Scribey,” she said, mimicking that annoying tone Lady Myong used on her when she frowned instead of smiling.

Or when she crossed her arms instead of resting them on her lap.

Or when she allowed the dirt to taint the hem of her skirt.

Or when she reached for her cup instead of waiting for someone to hand it to her.

Toph smiled. A real one.

“I like that.”

* * *

“I’m To-Toughie.” It was not a lie because Toph was a real, big toughie. “Can you tell me your name?”

She knew right away that it was a stupid question, but he seemed to be giving it serious thought.

“Okay, you’re Scribey.”

Loud knock.

“Don’t bother making faces because I don’t see faces.” _Unless I tried._ “You’re Scribey now.”

Long, defeated sigh.

“Are you a badgermole kid?”

A hesitant knock.

“I’m a badgermole kid.”

Did that make sense to him? It made sense to her. She was a blind earthbender like the badgermoles, and she was young. When she got older, she would be a “badgermole adult.”

“I see with earthbending. I know you’re sitting cross-legged while holding a slate.”

Rustle, rustle. Shift, shift.

As if changing positions would disprove her.

“Are you an earthbender?”

Knock.

“But you’re here?”

Two hesitant knock-knocks.

“Oh, I mean, why?”

The long silence was probably him trying to figure out how to explain himself in yes-no-maybe.

“No matter.” If he could not talk, then that meant that all he could do was _listen_ to her. “Do you want fun?”

Knock.

How insolent.

He was weird and suspicious and lily-livered, but that was how minions were supposed to be. If she was going to be the _protagonist_ of this adventure, she should have her own _minion_ to do all the boring work. Supporting characters existed to _exalt_ the protagonists.

“No _no_ , only _yes_!” she declared as she pulled a rock pillar up to push him off the ground. He tried to avoid the earth with a surprisingly quick leap, but she hit him with another one the moment his foot touched the ground. She would have to ask about that flighty-fighty thing later.

She cackled, uncouth and uncontrolled, as he stumbled forward and landed face-first on the ground with a grunt.

It was foolish to refuse a badgermole kid.

“You (ragged one) and I (elegant bloom) will search for Earth Rumble.”

* * *

Toph and her newly-acquired minion stood by the roadside. She sensed two men approaching, their voices carrying from afar. One of them talked in a gruff voice that made his companion’s mellow speech almost unintelligible. This man she labelled “Gruffy.”

“Mellowy” did not have a nice ring to it, so she would call the other one something else. Maybe “Toddles.” While Gruffy’s footsteps were harsh and heavy, his steps were light and leisurely.

Pulling on Scribey’s sleeve, Toph stepped on the men’s path. The men stopped just as their conversation did.

“Uh…Excuse me,” Toph began. She had rehearsed this line countless times in her head. “Can you tell us where Earth Rumble is?”

“*****?” Gruffy said in another language she could not understand. _Another_.

There was that queasy feeling in her gut again.

Did she say the wrong thing? Was her accent weird?

Maybe Upper Ring was fine. She had an interpreter anyway.

She tugged at Scribey’s sleeve and tried again, “Will you kindly tell these young ones where the Earth Rumble is located?”

A long, awkward pause.

Then, a snort.

“Holy Shu, why does she sound like a divination rite? **********?” Gruffy asked Scribey, ignoring her.

Toph gritted her teeth and tamped down the urge to smack the man.

“And what are you? *********? Her scribe?”

Scribey shuffled his feet, unsure.

“Yes, he’s Scribey.”

“Oh, a rich kid!”

His grating laughter assaulted her ears.

The audacity!

Good conduct was supposed to be repaid with good conduct!

Deeming the rude man a waste of her time, she tugged on Scribey’s sleeve as a signal for them to leave. However, Gruffy’s next words robbed her of what little patience she had left in her small form.

“*********** seeing-eye racoon dog.”

Toph did not need an animal guide to _see_ what this man was seeing.

He only saw her as a _helpless blind girl_.

Despicable!

Enough was enough!

_This man, I swear…!_

“By Kyoshi’s stinking boot!”

She stomped her foot and let a small quake pass for emphasis. Scribey’s muscles tensed, as if preparing to fight or to flee.

She was her own story’s protagonist, and nobody could tell her otherwise!

“*******?” Gruffy sounded bewildered _._

What?

That was not the effect she wanted.

“That slang’s old as dirt. That’s what my **** used to say back when ***********.”

Old?

Words could grow _old_?

Did they have birthdays, too?

Toph forgot her anger as her own confusion set in.

“Bro, fuck your great-grandma,” Toddles cut in, his voice suddenly lively. “‘By Kyoshi’s stinking boot!’ It’s _solid_.”

The two men took advantage of her momentary confusion and bickered among themselves. Toph thought it strange that there was no fistfight happening as a consequence of all the foul language they were throwing at each other. Inelegant words were disruptive, were they not?

“I’m not gonna call **** back from the Spirit World.”

“Fuck yeah, you would. We’re making it cool again.”

“Nobody says that ********* anymore!”

“Oma’s love juice, get that rock pillar outta your ass. It’s funny!”

Maybe not for these two, but for her objective these obscenities were clearly disruptive. Their commoner words were _very_ educational, but those were not what she needed to know _at the moment_.

And why were they ignoring her? If she wanted to be a protagonist, then she should _not_ allow them to dismiss her like this. Not like her servants. Not like her parents.

She was not a porcelain doll. She was no longer a caged sparrowkeet. She was…was…what was something big and intimidating? Her parents never let her near _anything—_

Suddenly, something in her mind _clicked_.

If she could not think of something intimidating, then how about _someone_ intimidating?

If words would not work on these idiots, then how about _actions_?

Toph encased the two men in earth up to their waist. The men squeaked like squirrel rats and turned all their attention to her, unable to disregard her anymore.

“Miss, I apologize on behalf of this idiot—”

“Shut up! ********! I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t really—”

What was this…liberating feeling?

This scenario reminded her of one of Master Luchuang’s read-aloud stories. In _The Last Coriander:_ _Book 1,_ the Bland Pundit used a similar earthbending trick and captured the Salmon of the West who was carelessly swimming in the Hearth Kingdom’s Super Spicy Soup Spring.

The Bland Pundit was a villain. As a proper lady she _knew_ she should not be supporting the villains, but _how could she not_ when they always got what they wanted by being _awesome_?

What was that other amazing villain’s line in _Book 3_?

“The weak should fear the strong!” the Melon Lord roared. Master Luchuang said this was not the moral of the story, but she thought it was perfect for this situation.

Because Melon Lord was _right_!

Scribey was tugging at her sleeve, trying to pull her back.

_No! You’re just a supporting character!_

She elbowed his ribs. He released her with an “Oof!”

Before she could stop herself, she was already cackling the same way her tutor did during his reading.

Nobody was there to scold her anyway!

“I am the greatest earthbender in the world!” she declared in a loud voice she did not know her lungs were capable of supporting. She hoped that He Who Writes Ten Thousand Things, the story’s writer, would not mind her copying the Bland Pundit’s line.

 _Next time_ , she would try re-enacting the final battle between the Melon Lord and the Master of All Condiments _._ It was much more exciting than the Bland Pundit versus the Salmon of the West, but it did not fit her current needs. There was more rock hurling involved in that one.

“Greatest Earthbender, please, we’re sorry. We didn’t really—”

Her minion was nervously scritch-scratching on his slate again.

_Right! Make yourself useful, supporting character!_

“What the—OH.”

Scribey all but shoved his slate on Gruffy’s face.

“‘Looking for Earth…gorogoro’? What _gorogoro_? Are those doodles shining _cha siu bao_ —OH! Rocks! Rumbling sound! ‘Earth _Rumble_ ’! Yeah, but it’s more ‘ureureung’ than ‘gorogoro’ if you ask me…Ah, sorry. Yeah, she asked, didn’t she? ***** but ************** y’know, so do you have **** to get in?”

Pa! Pa!

Scritch, scritch.

There was a lot of slate slapping and head scratching throughout their exchange. Whatever Scribey had written must be as confusing as what Gruffy was saying.

“In Common, _please_.” And by _please_ , she meant _or else you will regret it._

“I mean, _yeah_ , we know where. But it’s not free. You brats have…” Gruffy turned to Toddles and rotated his right hand around the wrist as if the motion could unearth whatever it was he was looking for. “Those round jingly things in your purse that you use when you buy—”

“Coin,” his friend unhelpfully supplied. Toph had no clue what _coin_ and _buy_ meant.

“What’s that?” she asked nobody in particular. Nobody bothered to clarify.

“Guess you ain’t got any,” Gruffy said. He seemed to have already recovered from her earlier threat. “And how are you even going to watch it? You’re—”

“ _What_ is a _coin_?” she tried again. “And a _buy_?”

Everyone was looking at her, but _none_ of them were saying anything.

 _Jiiiiiiiiii_ —

“Oh, my cabbages…”

“Seriously?”

What now?!

“What is _fucking_ a coin?!”

Petulant, yes, but she had already stopped caring about saving face the moment she said her first inelegant words to these chattering hog-monkeys.

“No, no, no, no. Kid, it’s ‘What _the fuck_ is a coin?’ or ‘What is a _fucking_ coin?’”

Oh.

…so it was more than an action word?

This “fuck” word was confusing.

How versatile.

But that was _not_ the issue! _Why don’t you just—_

“Fuck your…your cabbages! You (lowly ones) must answer _me (venerable one)_ posthaste!”

Gruffy raised his hands up in defense. Even Scribey took a heavy step away from her. Toddles, however, seemed strangely relaxed for someone whose precious cabbages were in peril.

Patting his friend’s shoulder once, Toddles took over and answered her in what she recognized to be the teacher tone, “Listen. When you ‘buy,’ you trade something for something else. We use a certain number of valuable metals in the form of ‘coin’ to ‘buy’ something. Like food or service. Earth Rumble is…one silver piece?”

“Spirits, that’s too expensive just to watch The Boulder ********** Fire Nation Man ****** fake—”

That sounded vaguely like the business her father did with his people, but she was not privy to the fine details of the process. Mother called it “an adult endeavor a young lady need not concern herself with.” Servants had always given her what she wanted or needed without asking her for anything in return.

She once heard a guard say, “I’ll take all the coin I can get for a nice trip to the springs with my lovely wife.” To this, the other one responded, “Wish I had a wife. I’ll just go buy me a ***** night with a ***** and ****** my problems away.” A third guard appeared and hushed them.

“What if the little lady heard you?” he warned.

 _Coin_ and _buy_ must be fun things they had all conspired to hide from her.

She released them from the trap. She was “buying” their information with her mercy.

“How does one acquire coin?”

Scratch, scratch.

Scribey dutifully translated her Upper Ring.

“Uh…you work? Ask your parents for some?” Toddles laughed, then added, “Or steal. Just not from us, please.”

She could hear Scribey scribbling again.

“ _Oma fucking Shu_ ,” Gruffy, stretching and flexing his legs, spoke this time. “Enough of this *********. Okay, listen, ******, ***********—sorry. One of those mountains over there? The ring’s underground, I think. _Good luck_ finding it.”

Scribey bowed in the same stiff way she was taught to do, and she followed out of reflex. The two men acknowledged them with sighs and shallow nods unbefitting of their station and went on their way. She could hear the exasperation in their distant conversation.

“By Kyoshi’s stinking boot, that was *****************. I mean, ********, like, ************—”

“Great-grandma stuff, huh? Now you’re using it, too.”

“Shut your airhole, you blowhard ******, and ************ your ******!”

They were babbling fools, but they did know a good number of inelegant words. She was learning much from this “immersion.”

* * *

It was only later, when she and Scribey encountered a saber-tooth moose lion on their way back to the cave, that Toph found a reference for “something big and intimidating.”

* * *

Toph paced back and forth thinking of their next move while Scribey and his ostrich horse languished on the cave floor like indolent people on a hot summer day. The boy made no attempt to stop his animal from pecking his head.

They were frustratingly good at playing the role of incompetent minions.

Toph stopped pacing and opened her mouth to scold them for leaving the brainwork to her, but all her words left her when she noticed something strange in Scribey’s heart. It was easier to see-feel-hear it when his upper body was touching the ground than when he was standing.

People’s hearts helped her gauge their intent, so she tried to pay as much attention as she could to how those thumping things worked. One thing she had observed was that people’s heart rates at rest were not supposed to be this quick.

She crouched and placed both of her hands on the ground to get a better sense. Neither were they this…consistent. It was barely noticeable unless she poured _all_ of her attention to it, but she had learned that the duration between each thump was not as even as one would expect. By counting between each beat— _again and again_ to the point of almost giving up because she just kept on _losing count_ —she found that Scribey’s intervals did not vary as much as they normally should.

Should that worry her? Scribey did not seemed bothered by it, and he did not seem to be in physical pain. Besides, if it _was_ a problem, it was not something she knew how to fix.

Come to think of it, was he breathing properly? Improper breathing was bad for _chi_ intake and circulation. Master Yu kept croaking about it because breathing exercises were the _only_ things they did.

Wait.

Why was she worrying about these things? She was not his physician.

Were they even friends?

She took her hands off the ground and rubbed them together, feeling the comforting grit between her palms. Clapping once, twice, she freed the dust just like the question of Scribey’s health.

Whatever his problems were were probably harder to solve than the problem of getting coin, so she returned to worrying about the easier thing.

“Coin must be acquired. But how? What do you (ragged one)…no, wait.” She could only ask yes-no questions. She recalled the options she was given.

“Can we work?”

Rustle, rustle.

Crunch, crunch.

The loose earth protested as Scribey lazily rolled over to reach for his slate. One knock.

Fine. She did not know what working meant, anyway.

“My house is far. Will your (esteemed) household provide you with coin?”

For some reason, the word _(esteemed) household_ caused Scribey to sit up and his heart rate to _spike._

“That must be a no,” she said, not wanting to upset him. She was still curious why someone of the noble class would be out in the wild, but her minion was not one to share answers easily. In any case, it was clear that asking for his or her parents’ coin would be impossible.

She waited until his heart returned to its unusual usual. Mostly to buy herself some time. Save the best for last, they said, but the last option was not really the _best_ kind of best.

“Would you (ragged one) recommend that I (elegant bloom) resort to thievery?”

Doing this would be akin to spitting on everything she was raised to be.

An elegant flower. A well-mannered lady. A virtuous member of the elite.

_“This is simply how it is done.”_

Knock. Knock. Knock.

How indecisive.

Was Scribey a real pushover or was he simply being supportive like the supporting character he was supposed to be? Hopefully the latter. She could get used to having supportive minions (maybe-friends).

Toph allowed her face to split into that many-toothed grin Lady Myong had described as “unsettling to its audience and unbecoming of a beautiful flower.” Scribey’s heart confirmed her tutor’s words.

By Kyoshi’s stinking boot, she was going to get what she wanted this time.

She was a _protagonist._

What did those men say again?

“ _Fuck yeah_ , Scribey. Scoundrels we shall fucking be!”

* * *

They were really doing this.

They were _really_ going to _ambush_ people and _rob_ them of their “coin.”

She turned her attention to Scribey to check for any sign of hesitation, for any indication that he would stop her from this _insanity_ , but—

—there was none.

Swords strapped firmly to his back, Scribey was covering his face with something wooden, something like—

Scribey sprang into action, his footsteps quick and sure.

She saw-felt-heard and _knew._

“What the _f—_ ”

_Was he actually a protagonist?!_

Swing-crash—

Toph stood up and joined the fray.

She would not be outdone!

—rumble- _BOOM._

* * *

Back inside their cave, Toph rummaged through the bag they had taken from the passing merchant.

Calling it a “cave” was boring. They were _scoundrels_ , so she should call it something more intimidating.

The Bandit’s Lair.

She was inspecting their _loot_ inside _The Bandit’s Lair._

Scribey did not seem interested at all. He was lying on the ground and using his ostrich horse as a pillow.

The _accomplice_ was _strengthening_ his spiritual bond with his _familiar._

“So…this is a ‘coin’?” she asked, turning the smooth metal this way and that. Gold.

Scribey ignored her.

“Your steps are…twinkle-y? No, twinkle is like ‘pa, pa, pa.’”

No answer.

“You’re more like a spark. ‘Pa! Pa! Pa!’”

“Sparky” brought to mind pointy things. It sounded nice, but calling him Sparky would make him seem like a protagonist. “Scribey” was more minion-y, like a bouncy ball she could throw around.

Scribey then. Until he proved himself worthy of Sparky.

“Hey, Scribey.”

No answer.

“Hey, are you listening—”

Snore, snore.

The accomplice was _sleeping_.

Was it night already? She was not sleepy, yet, maybe because of the lingering excitement of her first _heist_ and the idea of finally going to Earth Rumble, but the air was indeed colder than before.

Toph rubbed her arms, feeling the chill seeping through her sleeves. If she had known she would be out until the evening, she would have worn thicker clothes. She made her way towards the ostrich horse and sat beside Scribey to _steal_ the _familiar_ ’s warmth that he was hogging.

_So this is the Blue Spirit._

She did _not_ lose sleep because of this idiot.

She did not want to ask him about it, though. She did not want to scare her _accomplice_ (maybe-friend).

Scare a scary spirit. How strange.

Snore, snore.

She had not noticed it earlier, while the sun was still up. Sitting beside him this time, though, on this chilly night, Toph realized how warm Scribey actually was.

Like a fireplace. Like an earthen furnace.

So warm.

“Nuku nuku.”

Scribey startled awake, but he did not move away.

“Nukunukunukunukunuku.”

Even when she said it aloud, she still could not understand that _nuku nuku_ “sound.” Scribey seemed confused-amused as well if that head-tilting was anything to go by.

But if it meant _this_ , she understood with her own see-feel-hear.

Toph’s eyelids felt heavy as exhaustion caught up to her.

Earth Rumble was still a few hours away.

Just a nap. No, _power_ nap _._

Snore, snore.

* * *

“Dismount! Dismount! Scribey, let me dismount!”

Even if Scribey went bald from all the hair pulling he was doing, she would _not_ ride to Earth Rumble in total “darkness.”

She almost kissed the ground when she finally got off the animal.

 _Nobody_ would know that she mentally listed ostrich horses under “something big and intimidating.”

* * *

“It’s over?”

Buzzing with energy, people filed out of the venue. Her earth sense confirmed hundreds of feet stomping toward the exit.

“Sorry, kid. Show’s over,” said the man guarding the entrance to the underground dome. “The Boulder’s champ again.”

Unacceptable.

“Try again next season. Or Earth Smashdown. It’s less popular but—”

Truly unacceptable.

“Aww, kid. Don’t cry.”

Her eyes stung, but she was _not_ about to cry.

That scritch-scratching fool was writing _again_.

“Okay, okay. Take your sister with you.”

She was an _only_ child. She was not—

They sat on one of the _empty_ benches. The stage was right in front of them, but it was _empty._

She had journeyed far and wide, discarded her noble identity, and abandoned her morals for _nothing_?

Sniff, sniff.

That was _not_ her.

Sniff, sniff.

That was—

Croak.

—that was a badgerfrog.

Why did animals love mocking her during her lowest moments?!

“…fucking badgerfrog.”

Huff.

For the first time, she heard what might be Scribey’s sound of amusement.

“Don’t laugh, you fuck,” she said without malice. Her chuckle sounded like a coughing fit—inelegant, but this was not high society.

Rustle, rustle.

Scribey handed her a bar-shaped thing wrapped in rice paper.

Crinkle, crinkle.

Following his example, Toph unwrapped the bar. Rough and sticky to the touch. Wiping her snot on her sleeve, she gave it a sniff before biting. Peanuts and sugar.

She rarely ever ate sugary food. Her parents told her they were unhealthy.

But they were not there to scold her. She could eat all the candy she wanted.

“Thanks, Sparky.”

Crinkle.

Crunch.

Croak.

“Never surrender without a fight.”

It was a barely audible whisper, as quiet as someone blowing on their drink, as the wind rustling the leaves.

He was addressing the badgerfrog.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

“The wind whispers to the unheeding badgerfrog,” she replied. “But the badgermole hears and listens.”

Right. She did not make it this time, but _next time_ , for sure.

They ate their candies without another word—crinkling, crunching, and croaking the only sounds to be heard.

* * *

Crash!

Toph felt the vase shatter into a thousand pieces. There was something strangely liberating in breaking century-old pottery.

Surely, her father would lament the loss of this precious earthen pot.

She did not care.

_She didn’t care._

She was ragged and dirty from her little excursion, but this was _the best she’d ever felt_ since the badgermoles _._

“Toph!”

Her mother and father rushed into her room and immediately pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Oh, my poor daughter!” her mother cried.

“Where have you been, (dear) child?” her father asked.

Radiating fear and worry, they checked her all over—noting every bit of stain, every bit of dirt on their little porcelain doll.

“Oh, Mother, Father,” she fake-whimpered like the damsels in distress her mother so adored.

She could play the part.

Until _next time._

Fun protagonists had secret identities.

“The Blue Spirit spirited me away.”

* * *

It was early morning in springtime when she saw-felt-heard Master Luchuang again, much to her surprise. She’d assumed that he’d already joined his ancestors in the Western mountains.

That was awful of her. Her father didn’t say he did, in retrospect.

What were they talking about? He’d been with her father since his arrival, which was well before the start of her hour-long session with Master Yu.

They hadn’t planned to meet for lessons, what with his sudden disappearance last autumn, so she waited by the garden after her boring lesson in earth- _breathing._

She’d have to ask him about his absence. Did furnace people need to hibernate? She’d never heard of humans who did, but she wouldn’t be surprised if they existed. She’d realized that there were so many things she hadn’t known before—after all, she’d never heard of “coin” and “buy,” which were apparently very common, before her field trip.

Step, step.

Finally.

“Ah! A wonderful day to you, dear pupil,” Master Luchuang greeted. “We were looking for you.”

Swish-swoosh. A perfect bow.

“May you (venerable one) have a pleasant morning as well, _Sifu_ Hotman.” There was someone else with him, smaller but just as warm. What did “hotpeople” call their young?

His heart was overworking itself. She hadn’t smiled her “unseemly” smile, so she was sure she hadn’t done anything to elicit this kind of reaction.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait—

She recognized this small form. He was heavier and taller than before, but there was no mistaking this build, stance, and unusual heartbeat.

Shift, shift.

Memories of her embarrassing field trip last autumn came flooding back to her.

“This here is my _adorable_ grandchild, Li Luchuang.”

The stealing.

_Oh my fucking cabbages. Why is he—_

“Ah, he’s a scribe like his _grandpa_.”

The crying.

_Fucking what now?_

Shift, shift.

That stupid ostrich horse.

“Oh, don’t be shy now.”

He definitely recognized her _,_ too.

“Li, meet Lady Toph Beifong.”

**_By. Kyoshi’s._ Fucking. _Boot._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [More doodles here](https://sacrinecro.tumblr.com/post/631834487278485504/ch6doodles) (replies to comments on the previous chapter); image description available for screen readers. 
> 
> Next: Li’s winter with grandpa featuring: a training montage. You’ve probably noticed that I’m using Nihongo as a very, very loose basis for National. This is not to codify FN as JP (canon FN has KR, SEA, and South Asian cultural influences that I’ll try to incorporate, too). It’s mostly because of this fun historical thing that I’ll be referencing (very, very loosely) next chapter, which answers Zuko’s question in Ch4 (Who’s the copycat?) and why he got it wrong. 
> 
> What about Common, you ask. LOL IDEK TBH. Spirits, maybe.
> 
>  **Further reading**  
> [Translingualism](https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203073889)  
> [Beginner-friendly linguistics textbook](https://doi.org/10.1017/9781108582889)  
> [Examples of code-switching (bilingual and trilingual)](https://eric.ed.gov/?id=ED566700)  
> [Second language acquisition](https://blogs.umass.edu/moiry/files/2015/08/Gass.Second-Language-Acquisition.pdf)  
> Swearing ([pragmatics](https://doi.org/10.1515/JPLR.2008.013) / [child swearing](https://doi.org/10.5406/amerjpsyc.126.4.0459)) – It’s not in her first language so Toph doesn’t really get the emotional weight of the word “fuck.” All instances of swearing in this fic are more of a sociolinguistic thing than me being edgy (like Jee and Jeong Jeong because of their naval culture, Toph in defiance of norms, the poor guys here because they’re best buds).  
> [Ideophone (Wiki)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ideophone)  
> Ideophones and word learning ([paper](https://doi.org/10.1037/xlm0000235) / [MS Paint version](https://gwilymlockwood.wordpress.com/2016/02/11/sound-symbolism-boosts-novel-word-learning-the-ms-paint-version/))  
> [Heart Rate Variability](https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/heart-rate-variability-new-way-track-well-2017112212789)  
> Visual impairment and language – Uhh one paper leads to another, most of them unfamiliar territories where I can’t navigate at all. From what I’ve gleaned (oversimplified): some studies claim that people with VI have trouble with certain aspects of language (e.g. pragmatics, definition) due to their lack of visual input; others say there’s no significant difference vs sighted people because they learn differently through the senses available to them and through communication with other people. Blind people have also demonstrated [better memory](https://doi.org/10.1016/s0926-6410\(01\)00002-7) and faster synthetic speech recognition (about 2-3 times faster) vs sighted people [[1](https://link.springer.com/article/10.1186/1471-2202-14-74)][[2](https://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.310.656&rep=rep1&type=pdf)][[3](https://doi.org/10.1145/3173574.3174018)] (cool). Lots of interesting stuff that idk how to interpret or to write creatively because I’m just a pea-brained fool who, ironically, does not have “a way with words” so I’m just…going to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was inspired by a lot of fanfics, most notably Kintsugi (discordiansamba) and The Crown Prince (Unknownmusic)


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